


witcher marriage traditions, and other lies

by burrfication



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Single POV, Slow Burn, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, Timeline What Timeline, Unreliable Narrator, no homophobia because i'm gay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:35:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 52,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26596141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burrfication/pseuds/burrfication
Summary: The start of Jaskier's winter position at court is celebrated with a grand ball dedicated the artists brought in for the winter. But not all goes as planned when another guest recognizes him. Backed against the wall and faced with the threat of marriage, he spits out the first lie to comes to his mind and claims he is already married - to Geralt, of all people. To his immense surprise, Geralt goes along with it. In doing so, he commits to spending the winter by Jaskier's side and playing the doting husband. It's fortunate he does, because court seems more dangerous than Jaskier remembered. Monsters lurk in the corners and danger lurks behind every door. Without Geralt there, he might have been frightened. With Geralt, he's more concerned by his own growing feelings for the witcher. Can he get through the winter without Geralt catching on?Updates once a fortnight.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 436
Kudos: 547





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> A couple of quick notes:  
> \- I made up a tiny country in the mountains to avoid having to deal with researching canon cultures.  
> \- Updates will be slow, but I do have a good amount of this fic already written  
> \- Comments are my reason for living  
> \- This is a slow burn. I guarantee they'll get there, but it's going to take them a long time  
> \- I have no beta, so please feel free to point out any mistakes! I proofread it myself, but I'm fallible.  
> \- I give 0 fucks about the official timeline  
> \- There will be minor violence in this, but if you've seen the source material, you'll be fine

How Jaskier had convinced Geralt to accompany him, he would never know.

This late in the fall, Geralt ought to have been on the way to Kaer Mohren. But he had taken one look at Jaskier’s planned route to his winter court and invited himself along. Jaskier had asked him why more than once, but Geralt had given him no answer beyond grunts and, once, the word “Dangerous”. After that, Jaskier decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. If Geralt was willing to accompany him across the mountains, Jaskier would be the last to complain. There were, after all, plenty of other things to complain about.

Chief among these things was the cold. Jaskier felt frozen to his very bones. This was not surprising, given the chill wind that howled through the mountain pass. It was also not something he was willing to keep to himself. He complained about the cold at every opportunity, despite Geralt refusing to acknowledge his remarks. He disliked the wind, which whipped away the warmth from his body; he disliked the snow, and how it soaked into his boots; most of all, he disliked the frost which bit at his fingers, making it impossible to play. 

The higher they climbed into the mountains, the colder it got. At first, Jaskier’s complaints rose inversely to the temperature, until the cold sank so deep into his bones that he did not have the energy to complain any further. When snow started to fall once again, he felt only a deep exhaustion threaten to overwhelm him. He would never make it to the city for his season in the royal court. He ought to have taken the low pass like everyone else, even if it had added weeks to his journey. The shorter pass that cut higher through the mountains separating Lundar from the rest of the world would claim his life. He stopped in the middle of the path, breathing heavily. Tears stung at the corners of his eyes. He bit them back, not sure what would be worse: the chill from the water on his cheeks, or Geralt’s inevitable derision. 

A few paces ahead, Geralt came to a halt. Jaskier hunched his shoulders and hid his face when Geralt turned, hoping to preserve at least some shred of dignity. He did not look up when he heard Geralt approach. He paused within arm’s reach of Jaskier. Before Jaskier worked up the will to ask what he was doing, he felt something heavy and warm settle around his shoulders. For a fraction of a second, his mind reeled with confusion, trying to reconcile the smell of leather and sweat and blood when Geralt still stood an arm’s reach from him. Then his mind caught up with reality, and he huddled under the cloak Geralt had wrapped around his shoulders. It was much to large for Jaskier, but he could not deny the warmth. He looked himself up and down, and a frown started to tug at his lips.

“Geralt, how many of the stains on this are blood?”

There was a brief pause as Geralt considered the question. “My blood, or blood in general?”

“Geralt!”

One corner of Geralt’s lips twitched. Without a word, he turned and resumed his trudge up the mountain path. He did not seem at all discouraged by the loss of his cloak, which Jaskier grudgingly chalked up to the overall state of his dress. As dearly as he would like to blame it on Witcher mutations, Geralt knew how to dress for winter. Thick leathers and furs padded out his usual armour. Was this, Jaskier wondered, how he would look when he returned home to Kaer Morhern? It was rare for the two of them to be together so late in the season. Perhaps if he was used to harsh winters, the week-long delay in his trip would not seem too dreadful. 

He amused himself with thoughts about Kaer Mohren for the rest of the day. Geralt was taciturn as always on the topic, possibly even more so than he was about anything else. Most of what Jaskier knew he had cobbled together from off-hand remarks and old stories about witchers. One day, he promised himself, he would convince Geralt to tell him about his home. If he was very, very lucky, he may even be honoured with a visit. In the meantime, he would make do with what scraps he could gather from stories.

As warm as Geralt’s cloak was, Jaskier found himself shivering again come dusk. He set his bedroll as close to the fire as he dared and curled up into a small ball beneath his blanket. Shortly after he settled down, he heard Geralt settle behind him. It was only when Geralt’s knees bumped against the back of Jaskier’s thighs that he realized just how close he had come. Jaskier started, twisting to see what Geralt was doing. Geralt froze. Jaskier was reminded of nothing so much as a prey animal caught before a hunter, frozen in place. The concept of ‘prey’ and ‘Geralt’ were ordinary worlds apart, but the thought would not leave Jaskier’s mind, even when Geralt lay down and tucked his arm under his head for a pillow.

“You’re cold,” Geralt said, and looked away. After a few seconds of confusion, Jaskier grinned. They had shared bedrolls before to stave off cold, always after hours of Jaskier begging and pleading. Geralt had always agreed begrudgingly, muttering complaints under his breath and generally acting surlier than usual to make up for the deed. He could count on one hand the number of times he had offered it unpromtped – and it was an offer, of that Jaskier had no doubt. Nothing else could unsettle Geralt so easily. As dearly as he wanted to thank Geralt properly, he knew enough of his friend to know how uncomfortable thanks would make him. If Jaskier thanked him for showing concern, he would likely retreat to the other side of the campfire. So for once, Jaskier kept his mouth shut. He accepted the offer by pressing his body against Geralt’s without a word. He spent a few moments wiggling and squirming to get comfortable. Once settled, he let out a happy little sigh and tucked his face against Geralt’s neck, sheltering it from the cold. He may not have managed Geralt-friendly levels of apathy, but at least he had not added insult to injury by drawing attention to his kindness. 

The next morning, they continued on. When they stopped for the night again, Geralt said,

“I thought you’d been to this place before.”

“There’s a second pass. It would take over two weeks to even reach it, and then I’d miss the ceremony they’re throwing to welcome their winter artists. This one will bring us out within a day’s ride of the capital.”

There was a pause, then Geralt spoke. “You’re an idiot.”

Jaskier groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

They shared their bedrolls again that night. The same happened the next night and the next, until at last they passed below the reach of the mountain snow. Each night still brought a bitter frost, but the danger was past. 

As they descended into the valley, Jaskier marveled at the country around them. There was little flat land in the valley kingdom, so the gardens were built in a tiered system. A lake pooled in the base of the valley, crowned by the capital city. In the evening, the city lights glimmered in the reflection of the lake. 

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Jaskier asked, and Geralt grunted. While his response lacked enthusiasm, Jaskier did not miss the way his eyes glanced up from the fire to look. His eyes lingered for several moments before returning to their evening meal with a tiny smile. The observation brought a pleasant warmth to Jaskier’s chest. Too much of the world Geralt had seen was made of mud and clay and filth. He deserved beauty in life, even if he was too stubborn to properly appreciate it. Satisfied that his companion was not in a foul enough mood to complain, Jaskier took to composing. Yes, he had all winter to work on his repertoire, but he would not pass up inspiration when it came. It was no wonder, he thought, that this small country had become a centre for art. Even a philistine would be moved by the beauty in this land.

“You know, you should rest a while before setting out for Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier said as they approached the city. The stony glare Geralt gave him in response to that would have sent chills down the spine of most men. Jaskier tutted and shook his head. 

“Don’t give me that look. Even you must be tired after the nights we spent in the pass.”

“Jaskier - “

“And even if you’re not, Roach could use a rest.”

A peculiar look passed over Geralt’s face. His lips pressed together and his brow furrowed slightly. Jaskier had to restrain himself from whooping and punching the air at the sight of it. There were few things that could make Geralt look so constipated, and losing an argument was one of them. 

“One night.”

It was not what Jaskier had hoped for, but for Geralt, it was a huge concession. “One night will make all the difference, my friend.”

Jaskier chattered away as they made their way through the city, but even he did not listen to his words. He was too busy craning his neck to take in every last detail of the city. Jaskier could only assume the main road through the city kept them well away from the slums, as every building he could see was gorgeous. Many of them held gardens on the rooftop, filling the city with a sweet floral scent on top of the usual urban stench of nightsoil and decay. When they passed near the market, he saw a collection of street vendors cooking and selling food skewered in sticks or wrapped in leftover newspaper. Best of all, it seemed like every square they passed had some kind of live performance.

“Geralt. Geralt, I think I’m in love.”

Geralt grunted.

“I mean it. Look at this city, look – the gardens, Geralt! The fashion! The food!”

There was no response from Geralt, but Jaskier had not expected one. He was more than content to fill the silence himself. 

The castle was built on the very edge of the lake itself, covered in the tiered gardens seen all over the city. The guard at the gate took one look at Geralt and opened his mouth, plainly intending to redirect them to somewhere common mercenaries were sent. Quick as a flash, Jaskier stepped forward and presented his letter of invitation. The guard led them to a steward, who led them to a more important steward, until finally a man oozing with obsequious enthusiasm showed them to Jaskier’s room.

“We’re so delighted you’ve come. The Queen is ever so excited for tonight’s ceremony. I’m told she has a special interest in your particular style of ballad.”

The last piece of advice was delivered with a wink as the man opened the door to Jaskier’s quarters. Jaskier’s jaw dropped. The corridor opened on to a small sitting area containing a few settees and armchairs. Two other doors led off from the waiting room. The door on the right was locked, but the one to the left opened up onto a spacious bedroom. A large four-poster bed piled high with pillows and furs was visible from the corridor. 

“Gods, you could hold an orgy in this thing,” Jaskier said, running his fingers through one of the dark brown furs. Upon further investigation, he found a little seat by a window accompanied by a stand for music, two large wardrobes, and an entire room dedicated to bathing. The bath itself sunk low into the floor. As Jaskier stared at the bath with something like lust, the attendant demonstrated the taps that filled the bath with steaming water on command. 

“That’s a powerful enchantment to spend on a bard,” Geralt said. Jaskier huffed, turning and pouting at him. A small frown tugged on Geralt’s lips, and he paid no attention to Jaskier’s dismay. The attendant smiled politely, but his eyes flickered towards the exit.

“Our engineers may not be as renowned as our artists or wines, but they are equally accomplished. All water for the castle baths is pumped through a central chamber. It is the chamber that holds the enchantment.”

“Also, I’m worth it,” Jaskier insisted. Geralt’s frown faded, and the looked back at the taps with renewed curiosity. Jaskier bit back a groan. Left to his own devices, Geralt would spend hours examining such an enchantment. Jaskier steered the attendant after the room. As he left, he said, “Geralt, do take a bath. Now that we’re back among civilisation, you can’t go around stinking of dried blood and monster guts.”

Complete silence answered his direction. Jaskier snorted. If Geralt was too distracted to even manage his customary grunt, he must be entranced. 

In the waiting room, he thanked the attendant for his time and left him with a last few requests: food, wine, and most importantly of all, a tailor. The food and wine came first, before Jaskier had even finished unpacking his meager possessions. Years on the road with Geralt had taught him to travel light. His bedroll and other camping implements he tucked away at the bottom of the wardrobe. The rest of his clothes filled just half the wardrobe, for all Geralt complained he carried too many clothes. He shook his head at the sight. It was fortunate his payment for the winter included a generous stipend for anything he needed for his performances, clothes included. 

Once unpacked, he picked up the trays of food and took himself into the bathroom. As soon as he opened the door, he felt the warmth and moisture in the air against his skin. He smiled. It was nice to pretend Geralt had listened to him, but in truth, Geralt never could resist a hot bath. Sunlight streamed in through the window, catching the swirling steam rising off the bath. Geralt lay reclined against one end of the bath. Only his neck and head were out of the water, the rest of him presumably stretched out in the large bath. His eyes were shut and his face relaxed in a rare moment of peace. Jaskier halted in the doorway. A smile worked its way onto his face. Jaskier could count the number of times he had seen Geralt so relaxed on one hand. He walked over to the edge of the bath, trying to make as little noise as possible.

“Jaskier, I know you’re there.”

“I knew that,” Jaskier said. It was a lie. It would be more accurate to say he ought to have known that. Sneaking up on a witcher was no mean feat. Geralt had likely known he was there from the minute he opened the door. Instead of upsetting him, the thought prompted a warm glow in his chest. Rather than focus on it, he plucked a grape off the platter of food and tossed it in his mouth. The sudden burst of sweetness distracted him, just as planned.

“So, the bath is no longer suspicious then?”

“You’re the one that said I needed to wash.”

“You’re not washing. You’re reclining.”

Jaskier was almost proud. He remembered all too well how hard it had been to get Geralt to accept even the smallest iota of comfort. Any lounging Geralt got up to now was undoubtedly a sign of Jaskier’s good influence. Pleased, Jaskier settled himself cross-legged on the ground beside the rim of the bath. It was only when he set the tray of food down that Geralt deigned to open his eyes. 

“You’re welcome,”Jaskier said, and nudged the plate a little closer to Geralt. They shared their meal like that, Geralt in the bath, Jaskier chattering away happily beside him. Truth be told, these were the moments Jaskier cherished. As much as he relished finding new material for his songs, it was Geralt’s friendship he counted as invaluable. There was nothing glorious in the sight of Geralt’s smile, but Jaskier would choose it over any brilliant adventure. 

Of course, there were times his irritation could be as valuable as his bliss, and Jaskier steeled himself for such a moment as he had an idea.

“Come to the ball tonight.”

Geralt looked at him for a moment, eyebrows slightly raised. When he turned his attention back to the food, he did not even bother to shake his head. Jaskier sighed loudly.

“At least give me something to work with. A grunt. An insult. Something.”

“No.”

“See, that’s something,” Jaskier brightened. “I know balls aren’t your usual thing, but think of this: there’ll be food. And wine, better wine than they’ll bring us alone here. Not to mention there’ll be women, beautiful women, women who have just heard all my wonderful stories about the daring and chivalry of witchers. It’s to be the debut of my newest song – the one about the hag we faced in that awful bog.”

“Hmm.”

“Fine, the hag you faced. But I was there. Anyway, you should come, enjoy yourself, revel in the hedonistic ways of humanity once more before disappearing up your mountain.”

Geralt looked at him, lips pressed together in a thoughtful expression. Jaskier’s heart began to beat a little more rapidly in anticipation. There was no guarantee Geralt would agree, but he was listening. That was more than he had hoped for. If only Jaskier had some final temptation to lay out in front of him, something Geralt couldn't say 'no' to. He settled for begging.

“Please?”

Geralt sighed. It was a long exhausted sound, mirroring the resignation in his face. “If I do this, you owe me a favour.”

“Done.”

“And I’m leaving as soon as your performance is finished.”

“Of course,” Jaskier agreed. He would have expected nothing less. A wide and gleeful grin spread across his face. “Do you have anything to wear? What am I saying, of course you don’t. Never mind. The tailor is coming soon, and one more outfit won’t break the bank.”

It was astonishing, Jaskier thought, how quickly Geralt could transition to a truly vicious scowl. The change was instantaneous. One second he looked tired but resigned to his fate, and the next he looked as if Jaskier had confessed to murdering Roach. Jaskier took a moment to rank the scowl compared to previous instances and decided he was on shaky ground. The last time he had seen Geralt like this, he had stormed out of the room shortly after. 

“Nothing bright, nothing that will make you stand out,” Jaskier promised quickly. “And no fabric that does not meet your explicit approval.”

“You might as well put Roach in a dress and take her for a date.”

“While I’m sure she’d look absolutely darling with her mane braided, unfortunately she’s not invited,” Jaskier said without missing a beat. “Just me and my plus one. Come on, Geralt. You’ll attract more attention if you show up in your armour. This is to help you blend in.”

“Because it’s my clothing that makes me stand out, of course,” Geralt snorted derisively. Jaskier tilted his head, unable to stop a small frown from creeping over his face. He knew that tone too well. 

“Well, I didn’t want to say it, but you are going to break a lot of hearts tonight. There’s nothing we can do to make you less attractive.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and avoided Jaskier’s gaze. Refusing to be discouraged, Jaskier showered him with compliments until they were interrupted by a knock at the door. He did not leave him in peace until they heard a knock at the door. 

The tailor was a portly man with a thick mustache, followed by three assistants.

“I’m told you intend to buy a wardrobe for the season?”

“Eventually, dear man, eventually,” Jaskier said with a beaming smile. “Two outfits will be enough for today! One for myself, and one for my companion.”

“Of course. Let us see to you, first.”

After a brief discussion, several swatches of fabric were brought out for Jaskier’s perusal. He delighted in examining each one, eschewing more conservative choices for the most brightly coloured fabrics with the richest texture. At the same time, he discussed the design with the tailor, balancing local conventions with recent fashion. As eager as Jaskier was for an elaborate design, with the ball that night, they were greatly restricted by time. It would take hard work and a few clever tricks to meet his standards by the evening, but the tailor promised to do so.

“Now, your companion?”

“Ah,” Jaskier said. He opened the door to the bathroom and called Geralt’s name. Geralt’s eyes narrowed, and he sank a little deeper into the water of the bath.

“Oh, no, you don’t get to skip this,” Jaskier said. Arming himself with a towel, undershirt and underpants, he marched to the edge of the bath. “You made a promise. You’re not allowed to back out now.”

The weary sigh Geralt let out was packed with exhaustion. A moment later, he heard the telltale sound of water splashing and draining away. Jaskier hid a grin. He practically bounced back to the tailor and, with a flourish, announced,

“May I present to you Geralt of Rivia?”

A stunned silence followed. One of the assistants dropped the box they were carrying and fled the room in terror. Another leered at Geralt with obvious desire. The third, Jaskier’s favourite, continued on with their work as if Geralt was no more interesting than any other client. They were the one who stepped forward to take Geralt’s measurements. Of the two, Jaskier thought, Geralt looked the most uncomfortable. His posture was stiff and rigid and his jaw was tightly clenched. When the assistant asked him to move, he did so slowly, broadcasting every one of his movements. He did not say a word until he was permitted to retreat and dress. Jaskier took it upon himself to fill the silence with suggestions. Half a dozen ideas had flowed before Geralt interrupted with a curt ‘no’. Jaskier grinned at him.

“You don’t even know what I’m saying. You might like chantilly lining”

“It’s that stupid lacy trim you’ve got all over your green jacket,”Geralt said. “It’s hideous.”

Jaskier’s jaw dropped. It was gratifying to know Geralt had listened to his three-day long rant about the difficulties of getting drowner brains out of lace, but the insult could not stand. He spluttered out several protests, none of them coherent. The corner of Geralt’s lips twitched. It was too small a motion for a stranger to notice, but Jaskier had seen it enough times to know he was being laughed at. Outraged, he grabbed the nearest fabric sample, balled it up, and threw it at Geralt’s head. He was not at all surprised when Geralt caught it with one hand. He was surprised a moment later when Geralt hummed and rubbed a thumb over the fabric. 

“Do you have this material in black?” Geralt asked the tailor, and before Jaskier knew what was happening, the entire design process began without him. Geralt was on his best behaviour as he was lectured on the merits of different trends, softening his voice and expression to set the tailor at ease. He did not smile, but he did not quite frown, either. 

Under ordinary circumstances, it was an expression Jaskier loathed. He much preferred Geralt’s natural, grumpier expression, the one that didn’t drain his energy and leave him even crankier than usual. Jaskier was the one who had chosen a life of performance. It seemed brutally unfair that Geralt was the one who needed a mask for every human interaction, no matter how mundane. This time, though – this time, Geralt is doing it for Jaskier. There was no other explanation, and the thought made Jaskier bounce on his feet. He chattered away happily as Geralt and the tailor discussed the intended outfit, not caring one jot that no one was listening to him. 

After thirty minutes, he was interrupted by Geralt shoving a sketch under his nose. Jaskier blinked a few times before he took the parchment and examined it. It was not, all in all, a bad design. There was even a shock of blue peeking out around the neck and sleeves of the shirt. The tailor had ensured it met local standards and provided most of the detail, but Jaskier was delighted to realize he could see Geralt’s hand at work. Despite the rich fabrics and careful shape, the straight lines and simple cut were a dead giveaway. He felt a stab of pride in Geralt at the realization Geralt had his own sense of style that went beyond pure utilitarianism. A preference in something as frivolous as fashion was exactly the kind of thing Geralt would deny to the grave – and exactly the kind of thing Jaskier wanted to encourage. Nevertheless, he had some thoughts and suggested a few minor tweaks. To his surprise, Geralt accepted them without argument. 

“Not even one complaint?” he asked, astounded.

Geralt shrugged, handing the design back to the tailor with a curt nod. “You’re the one that cares about this nonsense. If there was something wrong, you’d fix it.”

With a nod to Jaskier and the tailors, he left the room. Jaskier grinned, strumming his fingers against the arm of his chair. 

“That was very nearly a compliment,” he told the tailor, thrilled. “Next thing you know, he’ll say I look nice.”

The tailor, having known Geralt for less than an hour, looked skeptical. Jaskier let out a theatrical sigh.

“Well, I can dream.”

The tailor packed up shortly after that, citing the fullness of his schedule for only taking designs for two outfits. Jaskier waved him off with a smile. There would be plenty of time in the coming days to plan out a wardrobe to see him through winter. For now, all he wanted to do was take advantage of the comforts at his fingertips. He had hoped to enjoy them with Geralt as a last goodbye before winter, but given the witcher had disappeared without a word, he was not going to wait for him. 

Once the tailor had been seen off, Jaskier took himself through to the bath and filled it to the brim. After adding a dash of lavender oil, he sank in with a happy sigh. For a few seconds he simply sat there, letting the heat of the bath soak into his aching muscles. Oh, but this felt _good_. He could scarcely remember the last time he had felt so warm and comfortable. He stretched his legs out under the water and wriggled his toes, then arched his spine. Finally, he stretched his arms high above his head before lowering them and sinking a little deeper into the bath, not stopping until the water came up to his mouth. On impulse, he dipped a little lower and blew some bubbles into the water before straightening and pulling his head out of the water.

He spent nearly thirty minutes sitting there, soaking and letting the heat ease the aches and pains of the road. Afterwards, he hummed as he washed away the mud and sweat from the road. By the time he emerged, his skin was soft and smooth and smelling sweetly of jasmine. He dried his hair with one of the massive towels provided and dressed in his cleanest outfit. 

Winter may have been on its way, but the afternoon sun still filtered in through the window. Jaskier seated himself in the seat by the window and practiced his lute. He started with a simple tune, all chords and a simple rhythm, just to get into the mood. Scales came next, before he slipped into improvising without even realizing it. A few of the fragments that came out seemed worth repeating, so he scrawled a few notes in his journal before returning to practice. The opening ceremony for his winter fellowship would be one of the most important performances of his career to date. He couldn’t afford to bring anything but the best. 

Three hours later, Geralt returned. Jaskier did not bother to look up from his lute, entirely familiar with Geralt’s routine when he returned to an inn they were sharing. He did not need to look to know Geralt would be carrying supplies for his journey north. He did not want to look, either. Geralt’s agreement to stay the night had allowed him to pretend for one more night that he was not about to be separated from his friend. He was not about to willingly ruin that blissful illusion with reality. As for Geralt – he seemed content to let things be. He unpacked and repacked his bags, tended to his armour and weapons, and conducted any number of chores without saying a word. 

Their clothes were delivered shortly before sunset. The chief tailor made the final alterations himself, looking pleased as Jaskier strutted this way and that and admired himself in the mirror provided. He was even happier once Geralt emerged, clad in black and grey with just a shock of blue. If only, he thought wistfully, he could convince Geralt to dress nicely more often. He looked splendid. Without his armour, his usual glower looked less like a threat and more like a warning and a promise. Here was a man who was more than capable of eviscerating his foes if he wished, but here, for the night, he had put that aside – provided no one offended him too greatly. It was the closest to ‘approachable’ Geralt was likely to get. Jaskier beamed. 

“Geralt, what do you think?”

It may have been Jaskier’s imagination, but he liked to think Geralt’s answering grunt was more positive than usual. He beamed. 

“That’s quite the endorsement,” he told the tailor, and gave him a tip on top of the price they’d agreed. “He hasn’t complained once about his outfit. You’re a miracle worker.”

“You’re too generous,” Geralt said, as soon as the tailor left. “He won’t share that tip with his employees, you know.”

“Oh, hush. You’re just mad that I talked you into silks again.”

Geralt grunted, as expected, so Jaskier did not pause for long enough for him to do anything else. He chatted happily as he examined his reflection in the mirror provided, fussing with his hair and applying just a hint of makeup. He did not usually bother with it, but the road had taken its toll on him. The sleepless nights in the mountain pass had left shadows under his eyes, and his lips were dry and chapped. When he caught Geralt watching him in bemusement, he huffed.

“Not all of us are ageless beauties, Geralt.”

“You’re not old. You’re vain,” Geralt said. Perhaps it was Jaskier’s imagination, but the words sounded more like an order than an ordinary insult. There was something there, Jaskier thought, something worth investigating. Anything that made Geralt that prickly was worth understanding. But it would no doubt take him all winter to puzzle it out, so he filed it away for the time being and pasted on a smile.

“That’s me, vain to the core, but don’t I have every reason to be?”

Rather than waiting for a derisive grunt (or worse, an outright rejection), Jaskier launched into a ten minute long boasting session. By that point, Geralt’s strangely foul mood had been replaced my something closer to normal – still cranky, but softened by amusement and, Jaskier liked to think, affection. There was no other explanation for why his boasting would make Geralt smile. He kept the boasting up as he fussed over his hair and applied just the faintest touch of make-up to his face. Once done, he looked at himself and Geralt in the mirror and beamed. Even if the ball itself was dull, Geralt's willing presence would make it a night to remember.


	2. Commitment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Please enjoy this chapter, in which they get the ball rolling. If you enjoy it, keep in mind that I absolutely thrive off feedback and will cherish every comment
> 
> Based on my current progress, we can expect roughly fortnightly updates.

The ball was, in Jaskier's opinion, a disaster.

As the chief bard in residence for the winter, Jaskier’s arrival at the ball was announced. Geralt’s was not. He had balked at the very suggestion. Jaskier had almost laughed at the look on his face when the herald offered to introduce him, and did laugh at the sight of him scurrying down the hall to a more discreet entrance. Jaskier intended to reunite with him after entry, but he found himself swept away by the sights and sounds of the ball.

The ballroom was at the rear of the palace, with impossibly large glass windows overlooking the lake. The reflections of the candles around the room shimmered in the reflection of the dark water. As frigid as it surely was outside, inside was warm. Fires roared, filling the room with sweet-scented smoke from the herbs laden on the flames. Servants flitted between groups of nobles, offering canapes or goblets full of steaming mulled wine. A group of musicians provided gentle background music; nothing worthy of much attention, but providing a pleasant backdrop to the hum of conversation. The real entertainment would come later. 

A raised dais at one end of the hall holds the royal family and the inner circle of the court. Later, once all the lesser musicians had played their part, Jaskier would be invited up there to perform. For now, all he had to do was mingle. He set off to find Geralt, but was instead immediately introduced to a visiting noblewoman from near his hometown. She then introduced him to a local lord, who introduced him to a Temerian merchant, and so on. 

It was all rather pleasant until he found himself face to face with a short, portly man trembling with rage.

“You!”

“Me?”

“You scoundrel!” the man said, jabbing a finger in Jaskier’s direction. Several people gasped. Jaskier himself adopted an affronted expression.

“My good sir, we haven’t even been introduced. I can’t imagine what quarrel you could – oh!”

Jaskier was interrupted when the man reached forward and shoved him. “You ruined my daughter.”

“Ruined is a rather strong word,” Jaskier said, tilting his head to the side as he thought. The man advanced another step, and Jaskier quickly held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. His advance stopped, but he said,

“The babe’s six months now, popped out nine months after your visit to Vizima. Hilda says the bastard’s yours. No decent man will wed her now, so I expect you to do the right thing by her.”

Sweat trickled down Jaskier’s back. Six and nine months put him in Vizima, to be sure, and in the bedrooms of half a dozen different women. He wished he could not remember any faces. But he could, and one jumped into his mind, a laughing girl with a quick wit and a wealthy father to dodge. He’d nearly been caught the morning after, and as he’d fled he’d caught a glimpse of a short, tremendously angry silhouette storming into his lover’s room. He turned a shade paler. It was plausible, he had no defence, and from what he knew of the local culture, refusal would be political suicide. Depending on how grievous the perceived insult was, it could be actual suicide. He forced a smile.

“I don’t – I mean, that is to say – I would very much like to do the right thing. But I can’t,” he said, trying to sound apologetic as possible.

“You can’t,” the man echoed. Everything from the stern line of his brow to the flatness of his voice spoke of disbelief. Jaskier couldn’t blame him. If he’d been a witness to his performance, he wouldn’t have believed it either. Desperate, he grasped at the first lie that came to mind.

“It’s impossible. You see, I’m already married.”

“Already married? You came in alone, you’re not wearing a ring, and I bet you can’t even tell me who you’re married to.”

“Of course I can,” Jaskier said, looking desperately around the room for inspiration. A head of blonde hair so pale it was almost white caught his eye. It belonged to an elderly woman, but it gave him an idea. It was not necessarily a good idea, but it was the only idea he had, so he went with it.

“I’m married to Geralt.”

Silence descended over the two of them. The people gathered nearby to eavesdrop openly stared. 

“Of Rivia,” Jaskier added helpfully. “The White Wolf? I’ve sung enough songs about him that I’m surprised none of you figured it out. We did it the witcher way, of course, which doesn’t involve rings – but oh, you should have seen the ceremony!”

He clasped his hands together over his chest, doing his best to look utterly enchanted. He gushed at length about witcher wedding practices, and how beautiful the ballroom at Kaer Morhen was. He told them that Geralt had let him braid flowers into his hair and sworn oaths written centuries ago. With every word, his audience looked less and less convinced. Sensing his opportunity slipping away from him, Jaskier embellished further and further, growing more desperate, until he felt a sudden warmth at his back. An arm wrapped around his waist, tugging him back, and when he looked back he realized the horrible flaw in his plan. Geralt could not play the besotted husband if his life depended on it. 

Even with Jaskier pressed against him, his posture was stiff and formal. The arm around Jaskier’s middle felt less like an embrace, and more like entrapment. Most likely, Jaskier thought glumly, he was poised to push Jaskier aside in the event of a fight. Well, it would not come to that. As much as he dreaded marriage, he would not force Geralt to spill blood on his account, not when he knew how much he loathed to do so. 

The man who had started it all forced a smile. “Witcher. The viscount was telling us all about your beautiful wedding ceremony. I had no idea witchers had such elaborate traditions.”

“He’s lying,” Geralt said. The words were no doubt automatic, and Jaskier’s own doing. Geralt never had been able to stand any misinformation about witchers or monsters. Fear seized Jaskier’s chest. There was no escape. He would be wed to a woman and saddled with obligations he had no hopes of meeting as a travelling bard. He would be forced to take a permanent court position, or worse, give up music entirely. And what then of his career? What of Geralt? Geralt would surely visit him, but he would hardly settle down. He would lose both his lifestyle and his dearest friend in one fell swoop. Jaskier could feel his heart pounding. At least a duel or a hanging would have been a quick end. He would wither away in a gilded cage, and people would sing his songs no more. 

Jaskier’s future father-in-law opened his mouth, likely to gloat, but Geralt cut him off.

“Witchers have no beautiful ceremonies or romantic traditions. The only beautiful thing at our wedding was Jaskier.”

The words alone made Jaskier dizzy. Delivered in Geralt’s rumbling baritone, they did decidedly questionable things to his insides. None of this was at all helped when he felt an odd pressure against the top of his head, only to realize a second later it had been a kiss. Geralt could be eloquent enough when he wanted to be, but Jaskier had never expected it to be trotted out for his benefit. He leaned against Geralt a little more, not trusting his knees to keep him upright. He felt a surge of gratitude to his friend. Despite the odds, Geralt was helping him. 

“Sentimental words from a witcher. I thought witchers didn’t feel emotions.”

“We aren’t ruled by our emotions. There’s a difference,” Geralt said. “It’s rare, but I’m not the first witcher to fall in love. Once a century or so, someone extraordinary comes along.”

“Like me,” Jaskier said smugly.

“Yes,” Geralt agreed, and only Jaskier knew him well enough to detect the undercurrent of exasperation in his tone. “Like you.”

A nearby onlooker, charmed by the scene, stepped forward and asked a question about the wedding, and what had replaced the rings. Geralt improvised as best he could, telling her that he had given Jaskier a silver dagger. Clever, Jaskier thought, to pick something Jaskier had on him. Geralt had given him a silver dagger, years ago, and Jaskier had begrudgingly conceded to carrying it. At the crowd’s request, he produced it. It was a simple thing, bereft of any ornamentation, but that was to be expected from Geralt. When asked why it was so simple, Jaskier simply shrugged and said “witchers” with far too much fondness in his voice. The fondness, at least, he did not have to feign. He had spent enough time with Geralt to know all his strange ways and had grown to find them comforting.

The one woman’s question was the pebble that launched an avalanche. One man wanted to know if witchers had any songs (they did not, but Jaskier would fix that). Another asked about the guests at the wedding (few, Geralt said, and said no more), while others still wanted to know if there was cake (as if witchers had time for anything as luxurious as cake). 

It all seemed to be going well until Jaskier’s would-be father-in-law asked, “And what happens to the boy?”

“The boy?”

“Your husband,” he sneered, “got my daughter with child. He has obligations.”

Geralt let out a thoughtful hum and tilted his head ever so slightly to one side. “Witchers have but one purpose for children.”

The man turned a shade paler. “I’ll not see my grandson turned into a mutant.”

As loath as he was to admit it, Jaskier agreed with him. Geralt had shared little bout his childhood, but Jaskier was adamant he would play no part in condemning another child to that fate. He had thought Geralt agreed. He opened his mouth to say something, but Geralt spoke first. 

“If the child is Jaskier’s responsibility, it is also his right as father to raise the child as he wishes,” Geralt said. “If it is not, then you cannot hold him responsible. Which is it?”

Oh, Geralt was a genius. As he watched the stranger splutter and panic, Jaskier would have cheerfully wed Geralt before the whole court. Within a matter of minutes, the stranger swore before witnesses that Jaskier was absolved from all obligations as father of the child. But, he conceded, the woman and her son must be cared for. After inquiring after her temperament, he recommended a particular branch of the temple of Melitile, and referred them to a friend there. Geralt's name, he promised, would guarantee her a place as a sister and scholar. 

As much as Jaskier wanted to spend the evening enjoying the party, he found himself trapped at Geralt’s side answering questions. After an hour, his patience was at an end. He tugged on Geralt’s arm.

“Geralt, let me go. I want to dance.”

“Witchers don’t dance,” Geralt said. Jaskier’s heart sank. As his alleged husband, Jaskier would be expected to dance with Geralt before anyone else. If Geralt would not cooperate, that condemned him to an evening of being a wallflower. He turned around inside Geralt’s embrace and pouted up at him.

“Please? Then, to add to the ruse, he batted his eyelashes and said, “my love?”

A muscle in the corner of Geralt’s eye twitched. “Jaskier. Witchers don’t dance.”

Instead of his usual flat delivery, Geralt’s statement carried particular emphasis on ‘witchers’, which was enough to make Jaskier pause to think. After a few moments, his eyes widened. A grin spread across his face. 

“You’re saying they didn’t squeeze in ballroom dancing in between ‘500 ways to eviscerate a drowner’ and ‘Grunting 101’?”

Geralt’s brow furrowed ever so slightly and a frown tugged on his lips. Jaskier put his hands on Geralt’s biceps and squeezed lightly.

“Right, no teasing where anyone else can hear. Rule number fifteen, I can’t believe I forgot,” Jaskier, but he could feel the smirk on his face, and he could not even stop himself from asking, “Not even a little jig?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled. There was enough frustration in the sound that several onlookers stepped back in fear. Close enough to see the regret flicker in Geralt’s eyes, Jaskier made an abrupt decision. He put both hands on Geralt’s face and leaned up to kiss him. To his relief, Geralt caught on immediately, moving his own chapped lips against Jaskier’s and leading a kiss that was just the wrong side of chaste for court. Jaskier pulled back with a grin. If they were going to scandalise the court on his first night, he may as well have fun with it.

“You know what that growl does to me.”

The nervous tension around them dissipated in an instant. A combination of embarrassment and outrage took its place, but Jaskier would take that a hundred times over people fearing Geralt without due cause. As for Geralt himself, his forehead crinkled with pure befuddlement. Jaskier would go to his grave before (and likely if) he admitted it aloud, but he thought the expression was adorable. A moment later the expression was gone, replaced a sullen glare. Ah, well, it had been fun while it lasted. 

Shortly after, a servant approached them both with a low bow. “Master Bard, the Queen is ready to receive you and your esteemed husband.”

“We would be honoured,” Jaskier said. As soon as the servant stepped away, he leaned close to Geralt and hissed, “Try to be nice. If I get kicked out because you manage to offend the royal family, I’m going to follow you to Kaer Morhen.”

“Hmm.”

“See, this is exactly what I’m talking about. You can’t just hum or grunt at royalty! There are expectations!” A thought occurred to Jaskier, and the blood rushed from his face. “Oh Gods, they think we’re in love. They’re going to expect you to want to stay here.”

“I know,” Geralt said. Jaskier peered up at him. There was none of the anger he had expected in Geralt’s expression. Even when he caught Jaskier looking, he merely raised one eyebrow and stepped forward. The panicked pace of Jaskier’s heart began to slow to something more normal. For all he teased Geralt for his social skills, Geralt had spent more time around royalty than Jaskier had. If he thought things would be fine, then they may yet get through this with Jaskier’s dignity and career in one piece. 

The royal family were seated on a raised dais. The queen sat in the centre, resplendent in a gown of deep purple and gold. Her hair was piled high in an intricate array of braids, around which sat a crown of gold. Her children and advisers gathered around her, all dressed in finery and vying for even a drop of approval. 

“Your Majesty, Queen Marlena, may I present your Winter Bard, Jaskier of Lettenhove, and his husband, Geralt of Rivia.”

Jaskier bowed low. Beside him, Geralt inclined his head. Several courtiers muttered, but the queen’s lips twisted into an amused smirk. She proceeded to address Jaskier, asking questions about his plans for the season and confirming his willingness to teach. To Jaskier’s surprise, he would not just be working with other trained bards, but had the honour of tutoring the royal children. He bowed low and tried frantically to think of songs that were child friendly. If he was to have the ear of a future monarch, he would make damned sure the child grew up with a proper appreciation for music and witchers. 

After a few minutes of interrogation, the queen turned her attention to Geralt. “And what of you, Geralt of Rivia? Will you be wintering with your husband?”

“With your permission, your majesty, I will,” Geralt said. Jaskier barely managed to keep his jaw from dropping. This was Geralt’s grand plan? It backfired spectacularly, as Jaskier could have told him it would. Within minutes, servants had been dispatched to make arrangements and accommodations for a witcher. Geralt was dismissed shortly after, and Jaskier called up to play his set. 

Jaskier’s fingers trembled as he undid the fastenings on his lute case. It was only when he lifted the instrument that he felt his usual confidence and bravado return. Geralt would have to wait. He had a show to perform. He strode out onto the stage with a beaming smile and a bounce in his step. By the end of his first song, all thoughts of Geralt and marriage had left his mind. The world narrowed to his music and his audience. As he danced his way across the stage, he basked in the glow of the crowd’s adoration. There was no feeling like performing. Nothing else could come close to the sheer elation, the lightness and energy that filled Jaskier from head to toe.

When Jaskier stepped off the stage, it was with a beaming grin. The audience was dismayed to see him go, but Jaskier comforted himself with the night that this night was just the first of many. This was what his winter would be, playing to adoring crowds. He could scarcely imagine a better way of passing the season. 

“A marvellous performance, sir,” one man told him. With a jolt of delight, Jaskier realized the man was one of the guests – a lowly one, judging by the state of his clothes, but a guest, not a servant, guard, or other kind of employee. As he spoke to the man, a small crowd of fans built around him. Someone brought him a glass of wine. 

Two whole hours passed before he remembered Geralt. He extracted himself from the crowd with earnest apologies and slipped away from the party. Not even the food and wine could keep Geralt at a party a second longer than necessary. No, Jaskier knew Geralt well enough to know precisely where he would be. 

As expected, he found Geralt in his quarters; or perhaps their quarters, now that Geralt had committed to spending the entire winter with Jaskier. It was a baffling decision. Geralt was as taciturn about winter as any other topic, but over the years, Jaskier had managed to glean promising gems of information. From what he understood, all the witchers returned home for the winter, unless a job demanded their presence elsewhere. In a response to Jaskier’s inquiries about his winter, Geralt had once said, “Others are still alive”. He had refused to elaborate further. Another time, in a rare fit of emotion, he had described it as ‘good’ to see his fellow witchers again. By Geralt’s standard, that was practically waxing lyrical about how much he adored the place, whatever memories it may hold. There was no doubt in Jaskier’s mind that Geralt was making a sacrifice to stay with him for the winter. It was a sacrifice Jaskier could not understand. 

“So. Thoughts on my performance?”

Geralt leaned back from the dressing table he had adapted into a desk. In the mirror, Jaskier caught a glimpse of golden eyes flashing to his before Geralt looked back to the desk.

“Your new song isn’t as inaccurate as usual.”

Jaskier beamed at him. “You like it? I thought you’d like the part about the forktail. You’re always complaining people mistake them for dragons.”

“I’ve heard worse,” Geralt said. Perhaps it was the alcohol in Jaskier’s veins, but he could have sworn Geralt sounded downright fond. As he put his lute away and undressed for the evening, Jaskier stole several discreet glances in Geralt’s direction. After the first glance, Geralt had picked up his quill and returned to his work. Jaskier lasted three whole minutes before asking,

“What are you writing?”

“A letter.”

“To whom?” Jaskier asked. The only answer he got to that was the sound of the quill scratching against the parchment. Pouting, he flopped belly-first on the bed and stared at the back of Geralt’s head. “If you don’t tell me, I’m just going to guess. Is it a love letter? Is there some lovely young maiden in the country I’ve stolen you away from? A grieving widow who took comfort in the man who avenged her husband? A - “

“I’m writing to Kaer Morhen,” Geralt said. Jaskier let out a small ‘oh’ of understanding. 

“So I have stolen you away from - “ 

“There are no maidens in Kaer Morhen. Just witchers.”

“Just witchers? No cooks? Blacksmiths? Stablehands?”

“Just witchers.”

“How many of you?”

Silence followed. After several seconds filled only by the sound of Geralt writing, Jaskier tried a different question.

“What do you do all winter?”

“Train, read, gamble. Tend to the fortress.” Geralt put his quill down, his brows drawing together in focus. “One time Eskel taught us a game he learnt in the south. Lambert lost half his coin trying to win.”

One corner of Geralt’s mouth curled upwards, and when Jaskier examined his reflection, there was no tension in his jaw or forehead. It was, Jaskier thought, a smile. If it was, it was a sad, wistful thing. 

“This really isn’t making me feel better about tearing you away from your family, you know.”

Geralt’s eyebrows shot up. “Family?”

“Oh, don’t say that like you’ve never thought it,” Jaskier snorted. He regretted it a moment later, noticing that even when he schooled his expression, Geralt’s eyes remained a little wide in honest bemusement. The observation made something tug at Jaskier’s heartstrings. Other witchers were the closest thing to family Geralt had. If even they did not count as such, Geralt’s life must be an even lonelier existence than Jaskier had thought. Not wanting Geralt to dwell on the issue, Jaskier distracted him with another question.

“Why did you decide to stay with me, anyway?”

“You’re the one who decided to say we were married,” Geralt said. His gaze flicked away from the mirror, and Jaskier could not read the expression on the visible part of his face. “Was that truly the best lie you could come up with?”

“Well, if you must know, yes, it was,” Jaskier said, rolling onto his back so he could cross his arms over his chest. His head hung backwards over the edge of the bed as he stared at Geralt upside-down. “If I’d thought ahead, I never would have thought you’d go through with it. It’s exactly the kind of thing you despise. Last time I asked you for help with something like this you told the whole court I was a eunuch.”

At Geralt’s small hum of agreement, Jaskier could not help but ask, “So why did you play along?”

“You were scared.”

Jaskier’s mouth fell open. “Pardon?”

“You heard me,” Geralt grunted. 

“Yes, but why - “

“How many years have we known each other, Jaskier?”

There was a pause as they both considered the question. The number seemed somehow slippery, evading Jaskier’s grasp no matter how hard he tried to catch it, but it was certainly many. When he took a second too long to respond, Geralt continued speaking without him.

“I can count the number of times I’ve seen you that frightened on one hand. Does marriage scare you so much?”

“Of course it does,” Jaskier said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Just think about it! The rest of my life bound to some poor woman who didn’t want me anyway? It would be a living hell. I’d have to be responsible. Gods, I’d have to settle down. No more adventures, no more ballads, no more of your witcher’s path. No, thank you!”

Geralt watched him as he spoke, cataloguing and assessing his every word and gesture. It was uncanny. “You know, I’ve never had this much of your attention before. Please tell me you’re not about to run me through, I promise I’m just human.”

The faintest hint of a smile tugged at Geralt’s lips. “I know you are, Jaskier.”

Jaskier squinted at him. “You are you, aren’t you? Only you’re being awfully nice about this when you have every right not to be. You’re not one of those horrid doppler things? I don’t - “

Before Jaskier could finish his sentence, Geralt advanced. Jaskier lay frozen like prey before a predator as he crossed the room and plucked the silver dagger from Jaskier’s belt. He held the dagger in front of Jaskier for a beat, making sure he had seen it. Then, without any further ado, he pressed the flat of the blade against his skin. After a pause, he re-attached it to Jaskier’s belt before returning to his seat. Silence descended between them for four whole seconds before Jaskier said,

“Well. I feel rather silly, now.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow and said nothing. Jaskier shook his head.

“Alright, I get the point, I’m drunk and paranoid. But you! You can’t deny you’ve been acting strangely.”

“Says the man who declared us married mere hours ago.”

“You agreed to it,” Jaskier said, jabbing a finger in his direction. “And you’re going to have to stick with it if you’re here all winter!”

“So are you,” Geralt said. 

“That won’t be a problem. I’m a performer, Geralt, it’s what I _do_.”

“Wasn’t much of a performance tonight. If I hadn’t backed you up, they wouldn’t have believed you.”

“While you did spectacularly,” Jaskier conceded, grumbling. “You had them eating out of the palm of your hand. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“They didn’t take much convincing,” Geralt said. “All it took was one compliment.”

“Ah, but what a compliment! The only beautiful thing at the wedding! I should write that down, it’s exactly the kind of drivel people love.”

“Hmm.”

“Oh! Maybe I’ll write about the wedding. Or – don’t give me that look. I have to write something about you, or they’ll never believe it.”

“No,” Geralt said, in a tone that brooked no argument. Jaskier opened his mouth to argue anyway, but he did not get a single word out before Geralt said, “I said no, Jaskier. This scheme of yours is reckless enough. If you want a marriage to sing about, go out there and wed the poor girl you got pregnant.”

Jaskier squinted at him. After a few seconds, he lifted himself into a sitting position and spun around to face Geralt. “That was crankier than your usual response, and you were so nice a minute ago. What’s wrong? Are you scared someone will see through your stony facade into your heart of gold? You shouldn’t be. That could get you laid.”

“It could get someone killed. Witchers don’t do love.”

“Bullshit. You said otherwise out there,” Jaskier said, jabbing a finger in his direction. Geralt exhaled slowly. He put the quill down and glared at Jaskier via the mirror.

“When I was lying to an angry father to cover for you?”

Jaskier shook his head. “Geralt, Geralt, Geralt, you must take me for a fool. Witchers can live for centuries. I know you wouldn’t know romance if it slapped you in the face with a wet fish, but surely there must be some witcher out there who fell for someone.”

To Jaskier’s surprise, Geralt broke eye contact. He glanced down at his letter then set it aside and turned around. “Fine. I’ll tell you a story if you promise to shut up.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. He scrambled for his notebook and ink and sat down, practically bouncing with glee. A story? From Geralt? It must be his lucky day. The wine at the party must have been particularly good, or perhaps Geralt had found someone who found grunts endearing – whatever it was, it must have put him in a fine mood to indulge Jaskier so much. A question formed on the tip of Jaskier’s tongue, but he swallowed his curiosity down. As badly as he wanted information, he was not about to distract Geralt with questions.

“I’m ready.”

“Alright,” Geralt said. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and making eye contact with Jaskier. “You need to listen closely. This story is very important to witchers. They teach it to us before we leave Kaer Morhen the first time.”

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier breathed. He was seized by a sudden burst of affection for his friend. “I promise you, I will do your story justice.”

“Once upon a time, there a witcher fell in love with an innkeeper’s daughter. The town found out and killed them both. They died in agony. The end.”

For the first two sentences, Jaskier nodded along, scribbling notes. Then came the third. His quill froze in mid-air. For a moment or two, Jaskier looked between the book and Geralt, before huffing and tossing one of the pillows on the bed at him.

“You bastard! Teasing me like that! Don’t you know stories are sacred to a bard?”

Geralt hummed. His lips curled into something that was almost a smile and said, “That is what we were taught at Kaer Morhen.”

“It’s poppycock, Geralt, absolute poppycock,” Jaskier said, waving a hand dismissively. “Who taught you that? I shall need to have words with him. There’s no reason a witcher can’t have a happy ending.”

The amusement vanished from Geralt’s face as quickly as it had appeared. “Go to sleep, Jaskier.”

“No, I shan’t,” Jaskier said. “Not until you tell me why a witcher can’t have a happy ending.”

“It’s meaningless,” Geralt said. “Tell me, Jaskier, what would your happy ending for a witcher even look like?”

“Oh, come on, don’t pretend you’ve never heard a story with a happy ending,” Jaskier scoffed. “It’s the same every time. Our dashing hero wins the day, gets the girl, and settles down for a long and healthy life.”

“And?”

Jaskier stared at him blankly. “What do you mean, and?”

“Look me in the eye and tell me you can see that ending for me.”

For a few moments, Jaskier tried to picture it. In all the years he had known Geralt, Geralt had never lingered in one place longer than necessary. It had always been a chore to get him to stay a few extra nights in larger towns so Jaskier could make the most of crowded taverns and richer audiences. He could scarcely imagine him settling in one place. Add to that the idea of a wife – well. For all Geralt got along well with the sorceresses he tended to pursue, he could not imagine them settling down for more than a few weeks before being at each others throats. And as dearly as Jaskier loved his friend, what ordinary woman would have him? People still recoiled from witchers. Any deviation from the norm was seen as a sign of evil intent, whether it was the colour of a witcher’s eyes or his ability to survive the impossible. Jaskier thought it was absurd, but he was keenly aware he was one of the few smart enough to realize that. 

“That’s what I thought,” Geralt said, and he sounded awfully smug for a man concluding he could never be happy. 

“Well,” Jaskier huffed, and admitted, “I didn’t know we were talking specifics.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. Jaskier could feel what little control he had over the situation slipping rapidly through his grasp.

“Okay, okay, how’s this: one of those beautiful, terrifying sorceresses you’ve seduced decides she’s sufficiently in love with you to put aside the crazy and bewitch a hideout for you to live in luxury.”

The eyebrow lowered, then pulled together with its twin to form a small crease in Geralt’s forehead. His mouth set into a straight, disapproving line, and any pleasure that had been in his expression vanished. He stood up and turned away. As Jaskier watched, he stripped down to his underthings and pulled back the covers of the bed before settling in. 

“What, no feedback?”

“Goodnight, Jaskier.”

Even Geralt’s voice seemed grumpier than usual, with a new note of exhaustion that had been absent mere moments ago. Jaskier must have struck upon a nerve.

The first time Jaskier had watched Geralt sleep, he had panicked. Geralt’s breath, always slow, became undetectable. At the time, Geralt had been injured, and Jaskier had feared the worst and scurried closer to check on his friend. Geralt had caught his wrist as Jaskier had reached out for him, scaring the living daylights out of Jaskier when he did so. Since then, Jaskier had learnt to recognize the near-perfect stillness of Geralt’s chest as a sign of rest, not death. 

Now, though, Jaskier watched as Geralt’s chest rose and fell. He had settled with his back to Jaskier, so Jaskier could not see his expression, but he had no doubt it was sour. His willingness to put up with Jaskier’s company had evaporated in an instant. For a long time, he simply sat and watched Geralt, considering. In retrospect, he should have seen this coming. There were few topics that upset Geralt more than the idea of retirement.

“I’m sorry.”

There was no response. Jaskier pouted, then took a moment to think before saying,

“I mean it. Can I try again? No, don’t say anything, I know you’re pretending to be asleep, but hear me out. You’re right, I can’t see you settling. You’d stay on the road. People would always pay their contracts in full, and everyone would treat you with the respect you deserve. You’d have enough gold to give Roach a treat every day, and a hot bath in every town you visit.”

For a few moments, there was silence, but then Geralt let out a pleased-sounding hum. The hard line of his back softened as he relaxed a little more. Jaskier beamed.

“You like it?”

“Good night, Jaskier,” Geralt said. Unlike the aggression of last time, Geralt’s voice came in a soft, sleepy rumble. Vowels blurred together and some consonants vanished entirely. Jaskier had caught him on the very edge of sleep, too far gone for the words to be clear and grumpy as usual. Pleased, Jaskier hummed to himself as he readied for bed. He took off his finery and put it carefully away before lying down on the bed in his underthings. As he pulled back the sheets, a thought occurred to him.

“Geralt? In your happy ending, would I be there?”

Silence followed his words. Jaskier cursed himself quietly. He ought to have known better than to ask a question he didn’t want the answer to. He looked over at Geralt, ready to apologize, before noticing he was fast asleep. As foolish as it was, he felt a flood of relief at the sight. At least this way, he could pretend Geralt might have said yes.


	3. Tour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for commenting so far! Y'all are really what keep me going with this.
> 
> A couple of notes: I've added the 'Unreliable narrator' tag. This isn't because Jaskier is particularly unreliable, but he is fallible, and very dumb at times.

The next morning, Jaskier woke to an empty bed and sunlight pooling in through the window. If not for his shocking hangover, he would have delighted in the luxury of waking up in a real bed, let alone late enough in the day that the sun was high enough to be a problem. After several minutes of lying still and hoping his hangover would miraculously vanish, he gave in and sat up. The sheets on the other half of the bed had been folded back. The sight confused him for a moment, until his memories from the previous night slammed into him. He groaned theatrically and threw himself back on the bed. 

He’d claimed he was married. 

Married to Geralt, of all people, and in doing so, he had trapped Geralt with him for the winter. There would be no opportunities for Jaskier to sneak off and flirt with strangers. He'd signed up for a season-long dry spell at least, to say nothing of the ongoing effects if rumours spread. And he had little doubt that Geralt’s acting powers would wane as he reverted to his usual grumpy self. The weight of their scheme would fall squarely on Jaskier’s shoulders. He could not afford to show even fleeting interest in anyone other than Geralt. 

Well, assuming Geralt had stuck around. He was nowhere to be found in their quarters, but Jaskier was quickly satisfied he had not left for good. Geralt did not carry many belongings with him on the path, but the supplies he had purchased the previous day for the road still sat in the corner. His letter to Kaer Morhen was gone, along with the travelling clothes he had been wearing for the past several weeks. Jaskier crinkled his nose in disgust. They’d have to get the tailor back to find something more appropriate for Geralt’s stay. Even if he could not talk Geralt into something that looked nice, he could talk him out of his usual gear. The clothes Geralt wore on the road were barely appropriate for an average city tavern, let alone for court. 

In the antechamber to their quarters, Jaskier found a marvelous breakfast spread set out on the table. Upon closer inspection, it had already been picked over by Geralt. Even if there had been another suspect, Jaskier knew of no one else who would have eaten the bread and boiled eggs but left the delicately spiced meats and cheese studded with fruits. For a man with such famously sharp senses, Geralt had the most unrefined palate imaginable. Still, for all Jaskier complained about it, it did mean he got to eat every delicacy Geralt turned his nose up at. 

Despite his pounding head, Jaskier had a pleasant morning, picking over breakfast and planning his winter. With Geralt here, his plans had to change, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy themselves. The city offered countless opportunities for mischief. Jaskier tried to picture Geralt spending his days lounging around and drinking, taking full advantage of the luxuries Jaskier’s position afforded them. No matter how hard he tried, he could not make the picture work. As dearly as Jaskier would love to see Geralt relax, drowning him in luxury was more likely to make him panic and flee than anything else. No, if Jaskier wanted to see his friend happy for the winter, he would have to be careful about how he approached this. 

Geralt himself returned around noon. Jaskier crinkled his nose when he walked in and looked him up and down in blatant disgust.

“Why are you wearing that?”

“Other shirt’s got mud on it. Maybe some blood,” Geralt said, staring at Jaskier as if he had never before heard such a stupid question. Jaskier made a sound of distress.

“The one from last night?”

Geralt leaned against the wall and fixed Jaskier with a look. “You really think I’d willingly wear that?”

“You did last night.”

“Hmm. Last night won’t happen again.”

The words hit Jaskier like a punch in the gut. His face fell, and he very nearly dropped his drink. He stuttered out a few disconnected fragments, never getting further than “the arrangement” or “married”. After a few moments of watching him suffer, Geralt snorted. 

“I agreed to stay and play along with your ridiculous lie. I didn’t agree to play dress up.”

A better man would take the opportunity to express his gratitude. Jaskier had an instant image of Geralt in pale, delicate silks, his hair braided with flowers. He grinned to himself. The look on Geralt’s face soured, and Jaskier’s grin turned into a snort of laughter.

“You know, you’re remarkably eloquent with those glares. If I could replicate that look, I’d never have jilted husbands chasing after me again.”

“About that,” Geralt said, crossing his arms over his chest. “If you want me to stick around, we need to lay some ground rules.”

“Ah. Let me guess. No more jilted husbands?”

“Good start. Keep guessing.”

Jaskier let out a theatrical sigh. It was one thing to suspect he would be having a season-long dry spell, but it was another thing to have it confirmed. His only comfort was that Geralt would be in the same boat. There were few comforts Geralt allowed himself, but sex was one of them, as often as he could get it. Jaskier would make do with taking petty comfort in knowing the suffering was shared. 

As Jaskier suspected, the list of rules did not stop there. There were to be no love songs, nor bawdy tunes to sing in a brothel. Making witchers more approachable was one thing; making them into a laughing stock was another. Jaskier was to pull his weight in selling the lie, too, not standing silently at Geralt’s side like he had the previous night. Jaskier’s defence, that he had not expected Geralt to go along with his story, was met with only a disapproving grunt. 

They paused briefly for lunch, then began to sketch out the details of their lie. Geralt had already laid the framework last night, and Jaskier was delighted to find there was plenty of material to work with. It was crude material, simple and rough, but despite Geralt not having a romantic bone in his body, he had the shape of it right. There was an elegant simplicity Jaskier had missed at first blush. At first, Jaskier had thought the idea of Geralt proposing with a dagger in some backwards hamlet insulting, but after turning the idea over in his mind, he found there was an underlying sweetness to the idea. Geralt was not a man who would woo with wine and flowers. His words would be stilted, perhaps even harsh, and his gifts practical. It would have taken Jaskier months of work to get there, soothing Geralt’s doubts and teaching him to love. The moment Geralt broke and told him he returned Jaskier’s feelings would have been beautiful indeed, and Jaskier said as much. Geralt frowned.

“You’re saying you’re the one that seduced me?”

Jaskier laughed. “Geralt, dearest, even if you were in love, you'd never admit it without help. You’re very good at what you do, and you’re excellent at brooding and looking intimidating, but you haven’t got the faintest clue when it comes to matters of the heart.”

“Hm.”

“I, meanwhile, am renowned for my seductive talents,” Jaskier said. “Even you didn’t stand a chance.”

“Hm.”

There was something off about Geralt’s grunt. Jaskier risked a glance at his expression and immediately winced. Geralt’s expression was cold and closed off. It was not an unusual sight, but it was unusual to see it when there was no one there but Jaskier to see the cracks in his emotionless facade. Jaskier must have touched a nerve. He forced a laugh and reached out to pat Geralt on the bicep.

“It’s a story, Geralt. It’s what will sell. One of us has to have made the first move, and no one is going to believe you fell in love easily. Gods know I wouldn’t believe it.”

“Right,” Geralt said, and Jaskier barely hid a second wince at his tone. “And how did this happen?”

The question was not what Jaskier had expected. Everything from the straight line of Geralt’s back to the intensity of his glare said he was uncomfortable. Anger was his way of hiding discomfort, and he looked ready to tear Jaskier limb from limb. If Jaskier had not known Geralt thoroughly incapable of hurting him, he might have been frightened. Instead, he felt only a stab of pity for his friend. He was out of his depth and struggling. Still, Geralt had asked. If he wanted to make them both uncomfortable, Jaskier would oblige. 

“Slowly. It took months for you to catch on. I wrote love songs, bought you gifts, complimented you, and touched you at every opportunity. It was the kind of courtship every young girl dreams of. There are going to be tears, Geralt, when I tell them how I filled our room with flowers when you were out on a hunt, or how I wrote you a new song every day.”

“Flowers and songs,”Geralt said, sounding suspicious. Jaskier couldn’t blame him. It was a story that would work on a human, but it wasn’t the kind of romance a witcher could recognize.

“You completely missed the point, of course. You didn’t realize until I told you explicitly, and even then, you took some convincing.”

“If you say so.”

“Ah, but when you realized,” Jaskier hummed, leaning back in his chair. He put one hand over his chest, the other spread out dramatically beside him. “The love of a witcher is a glorious thing indeed. It was only your earnest pleas that stopped me writing a dozen songs over it.”

“Witchers don’t feel love,” Geralt told him. 

“Please,” Jaskier said, flapping his hand dismissively. “If that was true, you wouldn’t be here now.”

He waited for Geralt’s riposte, but none came. There was a heavy tension in the air, but Jaskier did not have the faintest clue what had caused it. Presumably, Geralt had once again failed to understand the basics of human emotion again. He decided to elucidate.

“You wouldn’t have saved me from that horrid bruxa back near Crow’s Perch, either, nor that leshen we ran into a few years back. Both those fights cost you dearly. And there was the time you punched Valdo. If that’s not an act of devotion, I don’t know what is. Friendship, Geralt, is a form of love all of its own.”

“Well, then.”

It was as much of an admission as he was likely to get, and more than he had expected. Jaskier beamed. “The good news is, my dear friend, that your reputation is such that all you need to do is let me work. You will need to accept certain gestures. I won’t go as far as to ask you to appreciate them, but this does mean you aren’t permitted to hit me if I am too affectionate.”

“That won’t be a problem. You already ignore my complaints as it is.”

“That’s just the problem, Geralt! You can’t have any complaints, not if you’re my husband.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“Are they?” Jaskier asked. “You complain a lot. Perhaps you should practice complimenting me instead.”

It was a blatant bid for flattery. Geralt’s eyebrow’s shot up, and his lips pressed together a little more firmly. Jaskier would have bet everything he had that there was an insult on the tip of his tongue, but Geralt did a masterful job of holding it back. Jaskier grinned at him.

“Come on. One compliment, just to prove you can.”

Geralt grunted. He looked at Jaskier, then to one side, then back at him. Despite his efforts to keep a neutral expression, there was something like panic in his eyes.

“You…uh... you have hands.”

“I have hands?” Jaskier echoed, affronted. He placed one hand on his chest and gasped. He fluttered his eyelashes at Geralt and said, “I’ve never heard such romance. No wonder you have sorceresses swooning at your feet. What defences could withstand such a sweet assault? I have hands! I - “

“Shut up,” Geralt said. It may well have been Jaskier’s imagination, but he could have sworn the tips of Geralt’s ears were tinted red. Jaskier snickered. It was not often Geralt gave him such an easy target, and it would take more than grumbling to discourage him. 

“Would you really tell your beloved to shut up?”

“Yes,” Geralt said, not hesitating for even a moment. At Jaskier’s look of surprise, he raised an eyebrow. “What? You want me to wrap that up in a compliment too?”

“It wouldn’t hurt,” Jaskier said with a pout, but he knew a losing battle when he saw one. For all Geralt could be eloquent when he wished to be, there were some things that would never change. He sighed. 

Perhaps this lie would be more difficult than he had considered. Jaskier was a romantic at heart, while Geralt – well. Beneath his gruff exterior, Geralt had a remarkably gentle heart, tragically paired with all the romantic instincts of a drunken sailor in a brothel. When pressed as to how he had courted Jaskier, he’d claimed the dagger he gave him had been a romantic gift. Romantic! As if there was anything romantic about a rundown village in the middle of a bog. The only thing remarkable about the setting had been that it somehow managed to be more repulsive than the average shithole Geralt dragged them through. And there had been no declaration of love, either, although Jaskier would have concluded he was hallucinating if there had been. No, Geralt had given him the dagger to keep him safe. It was as much of an open declaration of affection as one could expect from Geralt, but it was hardly poetry and wine under the stars. 

The thought of poetry and wine had Jaskier dashing for his notebook, where he began to scribble frantically. Clearly, he was going to have to carry this performance. He could only hope that Geralt would remember his lines once Jaskier had written them. 

Sometime after lunch, one of the lower ranking nobles who lived at the palace year-round knocked on the door. He introduced himself as Lord Honeycutt, bowing as he did so. 

“It would be an honour to give you a tour of the palace while Her Majesty’s servants prepare the adjoining room for your husband.”

“We’d love to come,” Jaskier said, before Geralt could refuse. He bounced to his feet, hangover quite forgotten. Geralt trailed after him without a word. 

As they walked, their guide kept glancing over his shoulder at Geralt as if he was a threat. Curious, Jaskier glanced back and immediately had to hide a smile. As instructed, Geralt had stayed closer to Jaskier than usual. Consequently, he loomed over him, despite being a similar height. Still, he looked downright threatening with the narrow slits of his pupils and flat line of his mouth. The average person would assume he was five seconds away from breaking Jaskier’s neck. By now, of course, Jaskier knew Geralt well enough to hold no such fears. The closer he was to Geralt, the further he was from harm. Still, the idea was to convince the world they were deeply in love, and the current scenario simply would not do. Praying Geralt would play along, Jaskier took Geralt’s hand and laced their fingers together. Geralt’s head swivelled from their joined hands to Jaskier’s face. Jaskier batted his eyelashes and held his breath. His heart sank as Geralt unlaced their fingers, only to press their palms together and wrap his fingers over the top of Jaskier’s. Jaskier exhaled. Belatedly, he realized their guide had stopped ahead of them, watching them with curiosity.

“This way is safer tactically,” Geralt said. 

“Tactically,” Honeycutt echoed faintly. Geralt nodded, wearing the funny half-smile he got when he was trying very, very hard to be non-threatening. Jaskier felt a rush of affection for his friend. He was failing miserably, but no one could deny Geralt was trying. 

“He’s being overprotective, as usual,” Jaskier translated. “It’s not necessary here, but you know what they say. You can take the soldier off the battlefield, and all that.”

The bafflement on Honeycutt’s face eased, and a surprisingly tender smile replaced it. “My sister was the same after she was wounded in battle. I’m sure facing monsters must have a similar effect.”

“I hope your sister recovered well,” Jaskier said, and after the appropriate concern had been conveyed, switched to praising Geralt’s bravery in combat. It was easy to sound in love with Geralt when the conversation had nothing to do with emotions. Geralt’s mastery of combat and noble deeds were matters of fact, not opinion, so Jaskier did not have to worry about performing. As much as he loved the stage, even he needed times to simply be. 

They also spent a great deal of time discussing the palace itself, and Jaskier’s plans for the winter. They were shown several performance spaces scattered throughout the palace, as well as the classrooms Jaskier would use for teaching both other bards and the royal children. Along the way, they met artists and lords and knights, all of whom greeted both Jaskier and Geralt with respect. 

After the interior of the palace they visited the gardens, which prompted the first genuine show of interest from Geralt. He hid it well, but Jaskier did not miss the way his eyes darted from left to right as he took in the dizzying array of plants. To Jaskier, it was no more than a pleasing array of colour and scent, but he had no doubt there was much more at work for Geralt. Geralt had an encyclopedic knowledge of plants and their uses. It was not uncommon for them to stop in a field of flowers, not to enjoy the sight and the warmth of the sun, but so Geralt could move from plant to plant, saving petals and roots and anything else that he might put to magical or medicinal use. It was one of the few topics Jaskier could get him to converse at length about.

As they walked, an elderly woman with kindly eyes and hair whiter than Geralt’s popped up out of a clump of pink flowers. There was something about her round face and gentle smile that put Jaskier immediately at ease. 

“You’re the bard that performed last night, correct?”

“He is,” Lord Honeycutt interrupted. “Mother Nadia, may I introduce Masters Jaskier and Geralt. Master Jaskier is a bard of great renown, and has been invited to court for a winter season. Jaskier, Geralt, this is Mother Nadia, the royal priestess”

“It’s been a long time since we’ve had someone of your talent at court,” she said, cementing Jaskier’s high opinion of her in stone. “I don’t suppose you know any hymns?” 

“Um,” Jaskier said, wide-eyed. Behind him, Geralt exhaled slightly more heavily than usual, which for him amounted to doubling over with laughter.

“He has one song about how servants of the Maiden rise up, and - “

“Geralt,” Jaskier hissed. He stomped on Geralt’s foot, and Geralt raised his eyebrows at him.

“I thought you wanted me to praise your talents.”

“I believe I’m familiar with the tune,” she said with a chuckle. As embarrassed as he was, Jaskier jumped on the sign of amusement like a lifeline. He shared a little information about the history of the tune and what made it compelling, walking the tightrope between humour and sacrilege. By the time they left, he and Nadia were giggling and gossiping like old friends. Though he had no interest in religion, he promised to visit the chapel for a cup of tea when he had a spare moment. 

The gardens led to the courtyard and salle, where Geralt’s interest picked up again. Men and women in uniform performed drill after drill, all under the watchful eye of a woman who did not even reach Jaskier’s shoulder. That did not stop her voice from ringing out across the salle, chastising the soldiers and insulting them, their families, and their ancestors for their poor performance. 

“May I introduce my sister, the honourable Lady - “

“ _Commander_ Honeycutt,” the woman interrupted, sending a venomous look at her brother. It was not a pretty sight, as the scars on her face twisted and deformed with the glare. “Honestly, Hadreld, if you hadn’t bought me such interesting visitors, I’d wonder if you’d come here just to insult me.”

“Looks like you’re putting your men through their paces,” Geralt said, with a small upward tilt of his head towards the salle. 

“Hardly. They’ll never be any good if they can’t even master the basic – ULFRIC, KEEP YOUR PLOUGHING GUARD UP – footwork.”

A brief silence followed, during which Jaskier exchanged a somewhat desperate look with their guide. Both of them were wildly out of their depth. For once, it was Geralt who broke the silence.

“Third on the left, in the advance position. Keeps moving his hips when he moves.”

“Melitele give me strength,” the commander said. Her eyes rolled towards the sky, then she turned to the soldiers. “DELLIT! IF YOU CAN’T USE A SWORD PROPERLY, WE’LL TAKE IT AWAY. DO YOU WANT TO FIGHT LENNES WITHOUT ONE? NO? THEN STOP MOVING LIKE YOU’RE IN A FISTFIGHT.”

Afterwards, she turned back to face them and said. “Thank you for that. Tell me if he does it again. Kid thinks that just because he’s top of the class in hand-to-hand combat that he can be sloppy with his sword work.”

“Most soldiers don’t train in both,” Geralt observed.

“We’re not most soldiers,” Commander Honeycutt said, her chest puffing out with pride. “We’re Lundar’s special forces. The only division to see combat in the past three decades.”

“I thought Lundar had avoided war for longer than that,” Jaskier ventured.

“There are different kinds of combat,” Geralt said. His eyes flicked over to the recruits, then back to the commander. “Dellit. He did it again.”

Commander Honeycutt let out a long-suffering sigh. “Please excuse me. Or stay, if you want. Witcher, if you ever want to show off your skills, feel free to stop by.”

“I might just do that,” Geralt said, watching the commander as she left. Jaskier huffed and stepped away, tugging Geralt after him. He could feel Geralt’s eyes on the back of his head as he led him away and hoped Geralt could not guess why Jaskier was so irritated. It would be a miracle if he could, for Jaskier was only half-aware himself. But the suspicions circling the outskirts of his mind were best examined in private, and most importantly far away from Geralt.

“She reminds me of one of my old instructors.”

Jaskier stumbled. “What?”

“He died. But if the commander was a foot taller and twice as heavy, she’d pass for his double.”

The peculiar discomfort tugging inside Jaskier’s chest eased. “Oh. Did you get yelled at often?”

“We all did. If a bard has a bad night, he takes home fewer tips.”

As much as Jaskier wanted to protest that it could be much worse than that (as Geralt had seen more than once), he was bright enough to read into the unspoken words. A bad day for a witcher could mean death; ergo, witchers did not get the luxury of ‘bad days’. It was, in Jaskier’s opinion, a stupid argument, but one that he knew Geralt would never cede. 

Shortly after that, Lord Honeycutt bid them good-day at the entrance to the palace. Still hand-in-hand, they returned to their rooms. The third room in their quarters, previously locked and barred, now stood open for their use - or, more specifically, for Geralt’s use. The walls were lined with bookshelves containing bestiaries and tomes on herb lore. Several large books stood empty, waiting to be filled. An alchemy station occupied one corner, featuring an alembic, mortar and pestle, and several other tools Jaskier could not name. Brightly coloured jars lined the shelving unit above that, yellow sulfur and shimmering quicksilver (but, Jaskier noted, nothing so crude and useful as drowner brains). Lastly, a small desk had been set up near the window, giving the occupant plenty of room to read and write. It was, in short, everything one might want to pursue the study of monsters from the safety of an office. Jaskier was delighted. Geralt was not. 

He edged into the room inch by inch, right foot a shoulders-width ahead of the left. He sniffed the air, eyes darting around suspiciously. Jaskier was reminded of nothing so much as a feral cat brought indoors for the first time, overwhelmed by the sights and sounds and softness that came with it. After watching for a few seconds, Jaskier decided to leave him to it. He would settle down in time, or he would find Jaskier and let him know exactly was so intimidating about an office. 

With Geralt distracted, Jaskier retreated to his window-seat and pulled out lute. He intended to only practice scales and songs he already knew, but as his fingers skimmed over his lute, he found them moving in a new pattern. Never one to turn down inspiration, Jaskier let it happen. He repeated small variations on the same riff for over an hour before he knew how it went, then paused to scribble it down. He then moved on to the next fragment, and the next, until the sun began to dip below the horizon. The sky turned red, and Jaskier took a moment to contemplate what metaphors he could draw from that. With a jolt, he realized it wouldn’t matter if he was late for his evening performance. 

Jumping to his feet, he changed quickly and took his lute. When he stepped into the sitting room, he was surprised to see the door to Geralt’s office had been left open, just a fraction. 

“I’m going to perform. I’ll ask someone to bring you food,” he called, then left without waiting for a response. When he passed a servant in the hall, he did just that, before dashing off to the performance hall. He leapt onto the stage with seconds to spare and launched into song and dance immediately. As the evening wore on, his songs changed tone to sweet ballads, the kind that complimented a chilly evening spent by the fireplace.


	4. Routine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for all of the comments and kudos so far <3  
> This chapter is slightly shorter than usual, because life.

When he finally retired, Jaskier was all but staggering with exhaustion. He stopped by the kitchens to steal whatever leftovers he could before heading back to his quarters. The door to Geralt’s office was shut. As badly as Jaskier wanted to recount the night to his friend, he took the hint and prepared for bed. It was only when he stepped into the bedroom that he realized the door had been shut because Geralt himself had gone to bed. He had taken the side closest to the door, as he usually did, his swords resting against the bedside table. Before Jaskier could even think of trying to sneak to bed himself, he roused, lifting his head fractionally off the pillow.

“Jaskier?”

“Just me. Go back to sleep.”

Geralt hummed and lay back down. Within seconds, he was fast asleep once more. Affection swelled in Jaskier’s heart, and he took a moment to admire his friend. Early in their acquaintanceship, before Jaskier had secured his place as Geralt’s dearest friend, Geralt had responded to even the slightest movement in the night. If Jaskier got up to take a leak, Geralt would wake and have his sword before Jaskier could even get to his feet. If a wild creature strayed too close to their camp, Geralt would wake and track its movements in the black night, yellow eyes gleaming. Even now, if anyone else had entered the room, Jaskier had no doubt Geralt’s reaction would be the same. With Jaskier, though, he was different. He could sleep through any amount of noise Jaskier made. Jaskier grinned to himself as he undressed and peeled back the sheets on the right side of the bed. From anyone else, it would have been meaningless, but with Geralt, one had to learn to take whatever scraps of affection they could. He showed his affection strangely, but that did not make it any lesser. 

Warm sunlight and soft silk called Jaskier slowly to wakefulness the next morning. He allowed himself to doze for a while, drifting between sleep and consciousness, revelling in the luxurious rub of the sheets against his bare skin. 

“You’re still lazing about?”

Jaskier groaned, burying his face in a pillow. “Fuck off, Geralt.”

Geralt said nothing more, but the moment was gone. The luxurious laziness that had kept Jaskier’s eyelids so heavy had faded. Grumbling, he pushed himself up into a seated position and crossed his arms over his chest.

“You didn’t have to ruin my morning, you know.”

“It wouldn’t be ruined if you got up at a reasonable hour,” Geralt said, not even turning to acknowledge Jaskier’s truly spectacular pout. He had a package on the ground in front of him, and he removed items one by one to hang them up in the wardrobe. Putting his irritation away, Jaskier scrambled to the end of the bed to get a better look. While he could not deny the clothes were much finer than Geralt’s usual attire, it was a matter of quality, not design. He had stuck with the same palette of blacks and greys and browns, broken only occasionally by a flash of maroon or deep forest green. All the clothes were simple, designed to be worn comfortably under leather, and the fabrics were chosen to last, not to impress. Jaskier sighed, rolling onto his back and letting his head hang off the end of the bed.

“You are completely dull, you know that?”

“Mmm. Not all of us can pull off dressing like a colour-blind monkey.”

“Brute.”

“Peacock.”

“Philistine.”

“Dandy.”

Jaskier sighed. “As scintillating as this conversation is, you’re supposed to be calling me nice things. You're my husband.”

Geralt twisted on the spot, just enough for Jaskier to see his eyebrow rise. “Princess?”

“I cannot believe I allegedly love you,” Jaskier groaned, making a rude gesture with his hands. Without a word, Geralt turned and returned to his task. “You’re not getting away with such a dull wardrobe, either. I’m going to get you some appropriate outfits if it’s the last thing I do.”

“It will be,” Geralt growled. “I hate new doublets. They always pinch.”

Jaskier pulled himself up into a seated position and tilted his head slightly to one side, squinting at him. “Is that it? Honestly, Geralt, that’s the kind of thing you’re meant to tell your tailor. Even with your physique, there’s no reason clothes should pinch.”

“Hmm.”

“Is there anything else you don’t like about it?”

At times, getting words from Geralt was like drawing blood from a stone. This was one of those times. Over the course of two whole hours, Jaskier managed to pull some more complaints from Geralt. Some of them, Jaskier thought, he really should have guessed. He disliked it when his breeches restricted his movement, no matter how wondrous an effect they had on his thighs; he hated it when his shirt was too narrow, forcing himself to slump his shoulders forward or risk ripping the fabric apart. There were, in fact, a great many things he hated, but the vast majority of them, Jaskier promised, could be easily fixed.

“Honestly, if you weren’t such a grump with the tailor, we could have resolved this years ago.”

“Doubt it,” Geralt grunted. 

“You can doubt all you like, but that won’t get you out of following me to the tailor today.”

There was no doubt in Jaskier’s mind that he was right, and judging from the glare Geralt sent his way, Geralt knew it. And so neither of them were surprised when, two hours later, the two of them were headed into the city. Jaskier walked with a spring in his step, delighted to get a chance to explore. He flitted from shop to shop, dragging Geralt with him by the hand. For once, Geralt had no choice but to follow, and so found himself dragged into jewellers and bakeries and half a dozen different tailors. At each one, he insisted on commissioning clothes for both himself and Geralt. After the sixth tailor, Geralt put his foot down. He stood in the doorway, refusing to follow Jaskier in no matter how hard he tugged on Geralt’s hand. 

“No.”

“Come on, baby, just one more,” Jaskier pleaded, turning his best puppy eyes on Geralt. Geralt dropped his hand and walked away. Scrambling after him, Jaskier said, “Sweetheart, no, I can change, no more pet names, I promise. Just - “

Before he could get another word out, Geralt’s hand appeared over his mouth. “Jaskier. Go to your tailor, do whatever it is you need to do. I’ll be outside.”

Geralt’s hand disappeared, and before Jaskier could say a single word he had walked off. Jaskier spared a moment to stare after him before slipping back to the tailor. When Geralt was in a mood, the easiest thing to do was to take him at his word and act as if all was well. 

He ended up spending far longer than expected at the tailors, quibbling over the cost of different fabrics and wondering if he could talk Geralt into something made from a glorious golden silk. After fifteen minutes debating the idea aloud, he put it aside. Geralt had already shown great patience in allowing him to purchase silks in black, grey, and even navy. If he wanted Geralt to wear something colourful, it would be a long-term project. 

Outside, he was pleased to find Geralt had not gone far. He had been drawn into conversation with a passing merchant. Jaskier’s happiness vanished when he caught sight of the merchant over Geralt’s shoulder and realized it was the very man who had started their whole charade. He crept closer slowly. Previous experience told him the merchant would not notice him advance if he was careful, and with Geralt’s back turned to him, he may even sneak up on him. As he drifted closer, he heard more and more of their conversation. The man prattled on, more than capable of carrying a conversation with minimal input from Geralt.

“It’s a rotten situation and no mistake. Still, I can’t help but think your misfortune saved my daughter from a dreadful fate, being wed to such a scoundrel. But you have your own troubles. An unfaithful spouse is a dreadful thing. If you were to come to Temeria, his conduct would be grounds for divorce.”

It took all of Jaskier’s willpower not to leap forward and punch the man right then and there. Divorce? The very idea made his blood boil. He and Geralt were very happily pretending to be married. Divorce was entirely unnecessary. 

“I’ll be sure to steer clear of Temeria, then,” Geralt said coolly. There was enough disdain in his voice that Jaskier almost pitied the man. Sensing his mistake, the man gave a small bow.

“Forgive me, I meant no offence.”

“Then you shouldn’t have- “ Geralt started, then stiffened and turned. Caught, Jaskier spread his arms wide and beamed at him. He quickly advanced the last several meters left between them, staring at Geralt with the most adoring look he could muster.

“Geralt! Dear heart!”

“Beloved,” Geralt replied, and Jaskier tripped over his own feet. Geralt caught him, sliding an arm around his waist and pulling him scandalously close. As grateful as he was to be caught, Jaskier scarcely noticed the embrace. His mind was stuck on ‘beloved’. The word alone would have given him pause after their argument about the differences between pet names and insults. Combined with the low, inviting rumble of Geralt’s voice, Jaskier was helpless. Warmth flared in his chest, which his stamped out as suddenly as it appeared. Now was not the time to revisit long-buried feelings. He felt his cheeks flush, and prayed Geralt would believe it was a deliberate response.

“You caught me,” Jaskier observed. Geralt only hummed, and Jaskier felt his lips press against his temple.

To the merchant, Geralt said, “I told you before, if you are in need of employment for your daughter, seek out Mother Nenneke at the temple. She might judge your daughters choice in partners, but not her decision to take one. She’ll take her in. Until then, I wish you safe travels. The road to Temeria is long from here.”

Without waiting for a response, Geralt turned and walked away, steering Jaskier with the arm hooked around his waist. Jaskier sighed.

“You really missed your calling, you know. I know a troupe of actors in Novigrad who would kill for someone with your abilities.”

“I think I’ll stick with being a witcher.”

“I mean it. You are unfairly good at this. You’re sure there wasn’t an acting class at Kaer Morhen?”

Geralt sighed, sounding exhausted. “Sure, we fit it in between poetry and dance.”

“Oh! That reminds me, I need to teach you to dance,” Jaskier said, mischief sparkling in his eyes. “How does tomorrow sound?”

Geralt groaned, but Jaskier walked with a new spring in his step. No matter how much Geralt complained, he would not be able to escape this. A few steps later, he realized the opposite was also true: no matter how things went, he would not be able to escape Geralt. Anxiety twisted around his chest and settled in his gut. If he wasn’t careful, this arrangement could go very badly indeed.

Over the next several days, they fell into something of a routine. Geralt disappeared some time before dawn to do whatever it was witchers did on holiday; Jaskier slept as late as possible and generally lounged about, taking advantage of every luxury. He rolled about in the silk sheets and soaked himself for hours in the heated baths. He gorged himself on sweet pastries for breakfast and tried on at least three different outfits before dressing for the day. It was a gloriously hedonistic way to start the day, and Jaskier intended to repeat it every morning until spring came. 

Geralt typically stomped in a couple of hours before lunch. He was muddy and sweaty and filthy more often than not, and thus in a good mood. Then he and Jaskier whiled away the hours until lunch together. Some days they worked on the story behind their lie; others they simply talked. There were few people who could get Geralt to talk half as much as Jaskier, and he considered it a point of pride that he was so trusted. He had seen first hand how quiet and reserved Geralt could be when he was uncomfortable. When Geralt started opening up, then, sharing terrible jokes or discussing a book he had read, Jaskier had taken it as a declaration of affection. He could be a good listener when he wanted to be, too, something Jaskier valued in a conversation partner. He had a lot to say, and no time for someone who did not want to hear him say it. 

The best mornings, though, were when he talked Geralt into dancing lessons. 

It had started as a joke, but very quickly they had realized it was an actual problem. If Jaskier wished to dance at any party, it was expected that he would dance with his husband at least once or twice. If Geralt refused, rumours would start to spread. And so, after listening to several hours of Jaskier’s arguments, Geralt consented to lessons. Rather than ask another bard to play for them, Jaskier got his hands on a clockwork music box that would play a simple tune when wound. He presented it to Geralt with glee.

“There’s no excuse for you to avoid lessons now.”

The change in Geralt was immediate. He set aside his weapons and stood at attention, hands hanging loosely at his sides. Jaskier raised an eyebrow.

“We’re learning to dance, not fight. It’ll be easy, you’ll see.”

He spun up the clockwork box and set it spinning before stepping into Geralt’s space. “Now, I’m assuming you’re going to want to lead, so put your right hand on my waist.”

It took all Jaskier’s self control not to laugh at the half-panicked look on Geralt’s face as he mechanically lifted his right hand and placed it on Jaskier’s waist. Instead, he simply smiled and lay his left arm on top of it so that his hand lay lightly on Geralt’s shoulder. He then reached for Geralt’s left hand and lifted it up. 

“This is the basic position. Whatever happens, we can always come back here. Now, to move - “

If nothing else could be said for Geralt’s dancing skills, he could at least say he followed instructions to the letter. He learnt the formal steps quickly, allowing Jaskier to build to more complicated moves. Even better, he could follow Jaskier’s lead even when the instructions were unspoken. When Jaskier stepped back, Geralt stepped forward. When he moved to the side, Geralt moved with him. By rights, he should have been a spectacular dancer, if only he had remembered that dancing was supposed to be enjoyed. His muscles were tense under Jaskier’s touch. When he responded to Jaskier’s movements, he did not move as if they were partners, but instead opponents. Jaskier felt less like a cherished lover and more like _prey_. Had anyone else put him in that position, Jaskier might have been afraid, but coming from Geralt, he felt only deep amusement and fondness. He should have guessed Geralt would fail in this particular manner.

The most obvious sign that Geralt was not enjoying himself, however, was the look on his face. There was a special kind of blank look Geralt got when hiding his feelings, and that was the look he wore throughout every dance. It worried Jaskier immensely. By now, he considered himself an expert on deciphering Geralt’s emotional state from nothing more than the twitch of an eyebrow and the pitch of his hum. If Geralt was too secretive to share even that, then something was very wrong indeed. And yet, despite Geralt’s obvious dislike of the activity, Jaskier could not help but revel in it. He loved dancing. He loved the rhythm and the movement and the simple joy in sharing it with another person. When dancing with someone he cared about, that joy multiplied tenfold, even if Geralt spent the entire dance with a face like stone. 

To try and set Geralt at ease, Jaskier began to play around with how they danced. He added twirls and elaborate passes, challenging Geralt to keep up. More than once, he swooned and let his weight drop backwards, secure in the knowledge Geralt would stop him from falling too far. 

“You know, if you stopped looking at me like some beast you were tracking, you’d be good at this,” Jaskier told him one day. “You haven’t stepped on my toes once.”

“Footwork is important,” Geralt told him. Jaskier pulled a face.

“What’s it going to take to get you to stop treating this like a fight?”

“If we were fighting, it wouldn’t last this long.”

“Rude!” Jaskier gasped, feigning offence. “I might take you by surprise.”

“You couldn’t. And you wouldn’t,” Geralt said, and there was so much certainty in his voice that Jaskier stopped short. How many people did Geralt trust like that? He smiled, and said quietly,

“Of course not. And you wouldn’t fight me.”

Geralt inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement. Jaskier felt such a rush of affection for him that it took considerable effort not to hug Geralt then and there. He refrained, but at the end of the dance, he declared the lesson over. Given how much Geralt struggled with expressing emotions other than irritation or anger, it seemed cruel to subject him to both emotional conversation and further dancing lessons on a single day. 

After lunch, the two of them devoted themselves to their work. For Geralt, this meant shutting himself in his office. He spent hours at his desk each day, filling page after page. 

Jaskier’s afternoons varied from day to day. Some afternoons he was called upon to entertain, and spent the time performing for the royal family or some honoured guest. Some afternoons he spent with Mother Nadia, trading stories of his adventures for court gossip and a cup of tea. Those afternoons he considered as vital as any performance. He could hardly expect to flourish at court if he did not know the latest gossip, especially as a bard. 

Other days he was asked to teach. His sessions with fellow bards inevitably turned into collaboration rather than teaching, and he delighted in finally having company who understood the finer points of music. They whiled away the hours debating the merits and failings of different composers. When witty conversation failed, there was nothing like a group of drunk musicians for company. 

Sometimes, he spent the afternoon tutoring the royal children. There were two of them, both bright-eyed young girls filled with curiosity about the world. They delighted in Jaskier’s songs and stories. When they complained about their more boring lessons, he helped them weave it into a song. In return, they hung on his every word. The eldest of the two, Helena, was not even ten, and seemed to live for stories of Jaskier’s adventures with Geralt. She begged him to take her on an adventure, no matter how many times he told her it was too dangerous, no matter how many times he emphasised the risks. Her sister Julita was no better. She was adamant she was going to run away from the palace and travel around the continent instead of being wed to some stuffy old noble. When those discussions came up, Mother Nadia usually intervened, scolding the children for neglecting their duties. They were royalty, and that came with responsibilities. Jaskier did not bother to hide his relief when she did so. He was not a religious man, but her timing was nothing short of miraculous.

When Jaskier was very lucky, he was given the afternoon off. Those afternoons he spent in the little window seat in the bedroom with his lute and his notebook, inventing and editing and revising until every last refrain was flawless. At first he worried about the noise distracting Geralt, until he noticed Geralt’s door remained closed when he did not want to be disturbed. When it remained open while Jaskier was playing, then, he had no choice but to assume his music was welcome. He made sure to play Geralt's favourite songs on those days. 

Evenings, without fail, Jaskier performed. Whether it was a small, intimate gathering or a full ballroom, whether alone or as part of a troupe, he performed every single night. He did not return until late in the evening, when Geralt had already retired to bed. The first few nights, he kept himself to the other side of the bed, but on the seventh night, drunk enough not to think about consequences, he lay beside Geralt and managed to wriggle under one of his arms. Geralt stirred, but Jaskier soothed him with a gentle pat on the bicep.

“You’re my best friend. You know that, right?”

“You’re drunk,” Geralt mumbled, still more than half asleep.

“Very,” Jaskier agreed happily, and pressed his back against Geralt’s chest. “Now shut up and cuddle.”

Geralt grumbled, but Jaskier paid him no heed on the grounds that Geralt always grumbled. The room seemed to spin before his eyes as he lay in the dark, but despite that, he smiled as he drifted off to sleep. Geralt’s arm was warm and comfortable around him, and in that moment, Jaskier could not think for the life of him why they did not do that more often. 

He woke with a splitting headache and a foul taste in his mouth that reminded him of drowner innards. He opened his eyes. Someone had closed the curtains, and when he tilted his head to one side he saw a clean chamber pot, a pot of tea, and a large jug of water. When he moved towards the water, his stomach rolled, and he found himself emptying his stomach into the pot.

As he sipped on the water, he tried to put together the puzzle of what had happened. By rights, he should have woken with the sun in his eyes hours ago. He moved onto the tea, sniffing it curiously. His heart sank. He couldn’t name the herbs that had gone into it, not without seeing them, but he recognised them by smell. Ordinary servants would not think to make a tea out of the kind of herbs witchers used. Jaskier drank the tea and fought a rising sense of unease creeping up his spine. Geralt was usually asleep by the time Jaskier came in. He pushed through the haze surrounding his memory, trying to figure out what had happened the previous night. When he remembered the cuddling and conversation, he groaned and let himself fall back against the bed. He'd insisted on cuddling with Geralt. He'd called it cuddling, to Geralt's face, instead of falling into their usual habits of pretending it was a necessity. Jaskier had made a terrible, no good, very bad decision. It was also a decision he was in no position to face given his hangover, so he gave himself permission to ignore it for the day. To his relief, Geralt made no mention of it. The next day, Jaskier considered raising the issue, but decided to set it aside. There was no point facing a difficult conversation that could be avoided, especially when dealing with Geralt. He would forget about it entirely. When it came to certain things, that was the easiest thing to do.


	5. Attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> A couple of quick notes:  
> \- The next chapter will be anywhere from a few days up to a week late. I'm going camping on update weekend and will be too busy dodging venomous snakes to post.  
> \- Yen is mentioned here, and Jaskier is not respectful. That's just who he is, sorry.  
> \- This chapter includes a description of injury  
> \- Your comments and kudos are very appreciated and keep me writing!  
> \- Lastly, I'm on tumblr with the same username.

It started like any other day. Jaskier woke in silk sheets and spent the morning picking at breakfast and playing his lute. Geralt returned from his morning activities, and the two of them were an hour in to a very enjoyable argument when Geralt stilled. He lifted his head a little and sniffed the air. 

“Blood. A lot of it.”

Jaskier blinked a couple of times before he caught up with the abrupt change of topic. “Oh, bugger.”

Geralt was halfway to the door in the time it took Jaskier to get to his feet. The two of them raced through the halls, Jaskier following Geralt, Geralt following his nose. The sight of them running attracted the attention of the guards on duty, and soon they had a tail following. One of the guards called out to Geralt as if he knew him, asking what was happening. Jaskier answered for him.

“Someone’s hurt.”

They found the source of the blood in a courtyard near the royal apartments. A servant sat slumped against the wall, blood pooling around her. She was deathly pale, and her head lolled against her shoulder. Geralt crouched down before shoulder.

“Jaskier, bandages. And get a healer.”

Jaskier had no bandages on him, but he did procure sufficient cloth from the rapidly growing group of onlookers. With the help of the friendly guard, he set up a perimeter and kept most of the crowd back. While waiting for the medic, Jaskier helped as he could, bandaging the woman’s wounds and cleaning away the blood. Before long, the person sent running for a medic returned. The man crouched down beside Geralt and took the servant’s pulse.

“She’s alive.”

“Claw marks across her face and chest,” Geralt said, “and a bite on her arm. What’s on the other side of the wall?”

One of the guards nearby turned a shade paler. “The royal gardens.”

“I need to get in.”

“This way, sir,” the friendly guard said, and led both Geralt and Jaskier away from the scene. “The commander will have a fit when she finds out.”

Geralt snorted. “I’d rather not be there when you break the news.”

“Well, there goes my plan. I was going to hide behind you.”

The guard spoke to the men on duty at the entrance to the royal suites, and the three of them were waved through. Geralt made a beeline for the courtyard and began to methodically search the area. The friendly guard made to follow him, but Jaskier held an arm out and stopped him.

“Give him a minute. I accidentally messed up a trail left by bandits five years ago, and he still reminds me of it.”

“Because it was a stupid thing to do,” Geralt called back, even though Jaskier’s voice had been quiet. An ordinary man never would have heard Jaskier's comment. The guard looked a little startled at his response, but Jaskier just sighed. 

“He does that.”

“You’ve been together long, then?” the guard asked, leaning against a nearby wall. “He talks about you like it’s been decades.”

“Oh, it has. At least one,” Jaskier said. He wracked his brain trying to do the maths before promptly giving up. Yes, he’d mastered the seven liberal arts in college, and yes, he’d forgotten the boring bits after six months like any other student. He may be an academic genius, but that didn't mean he gave a damn about arithmetic. “How do you two know each other?”

“Commander Honeycutt cracked one of his ribs when he came by to train. He’s been back every day.”

An image of a short woman with fiery brown eyes and a scarred face flashed through Jaskier’s mind. He choked on nothing but air, then managed to wheeze out, “She cracked his rib?”

“Well, Jen did the cracking, but only because she’d let us use swords and made Geralt go without,” the guard said with a grin. Jaskier opened and closed his mouth several times, but before he could explode with anger, Geralt called him over. 

“What is it?”

“It’s not often I find a group of humans willing to train with a witcher,” Geralt said. He did not rise from his crouch, nor did he look up from the ground he was inspecting so closely. “Even rarer for them to try to figure out how to make it worth my while.”

“Breaking a rib is making it worth your while?”

“Mm. Last winter I broke Lambert’s arm. He deserved it, too. He was cocky, and lazy, and kept letting his guard down. If it had happened in a real fight, it could have cost him his arm.”

“Oh, so it’s all of you that are insane, not just you,” Jaskier said. “Good. I was wondering.”

Geralt snorted. “Trust me. If you knew Lambert, you’d agree.”

He then looked around and sniffed the air. “Do you smell that?”

Before Jaskier could respond, Geralt got to his feet and walked out of the apartment and into the small courtyard adjoining it. He took a moment to cast his eyes over the ground before beckoning Jaskier forward.

“Get over here. I need a boost.”

“Oh, the great Geralt of Rivia needs my help,” Jaskier said, mockery in his voice as he sauntered over and crouched down where Geralt indicated. Without a word of thanks, Geralt stepped onto his waiting hands and, with Jaskier’s help, jumped high enough to grab the ledge of the balcony above. He scrambled up and over and disappeared. Jaskier stood in the courtyard, hands on his hips and staring up. After a few minutes, the friendly guard came to join him.

“Any idea what he’s doing?”

“Sometimes I wonder if he knows what he’s doing,” Jaskier said. 

When Geralt finally descended, his expression was grim. “He left through the baths. I can’t follow the scent.”

“He?”

“Werewolf,” Geralt said, and the guard turned pale. He stuttered a few times, never getting out more than a ‘w’ sound. Jaskier sighed. And here he’d been hoping on a relaxing afternoon. 

Rather than a normal investigation, the situation quickly spiralled out of control. The guard reported the werewolf to the door guard, who reported to his superior, who turned faint and nearly passed out. Had the royal children not taken ill with stomach flu, they would have been in those very rooms at the time of the invasion. Interest in Geralt’s hunt increased tenfold. The royal guard searched the apartment over ten times, only to be exiled by the special forces led by Commander Honeycutt.

“You won’t find anything,” Geralt said, as soon as the hand-over was complete. “Idiots trampled all the tracks.”

“I’m lucky you got here first, then,” she said, and Geralt sighed. He gave a concise but informative overview of what he knew, what he suspected, and what he thought should happen next. She listened to Geralt, expression unreadable, then nodded to her right-hand man. The soldiers sprung into action, following Geralt’s advice to the letter. Not one detail was ignored. The commander thanked Geralt for his assistance and seemed to genuinely mean it, smiling and clapping Geralt on the shoulder before disappearing to visit the queen.

Trying not to sound too astonished, Jaskier said, “You’ve made friends.”

Geralt shrugged. “They bond by hitting things. Not hard to fit in.”

Jaskier sighed and shook his head. The relationship between witchers and soldiers was one he would never understand. Most of the time, they were natural enemies, with soldiers dismissing witchers as nothing more than mutant mercenaries. Occasionally, however, a unit would behave differently. There was nothing Jaskier could detect that made them unique. They were as blunt and boorish as other soldiers, prone to arrogance crass jokes and enamoured with their own limited power; but when they met Geralt, they welcomed him as one of their own. And while Geralt did not share their overinflated egos or lust for power, he did share their hobbies of beating each other up, drinking, and gambling. Commander Honeycutt’s squad was clearly one such group. If they had decided to accept Geralt as one of their own, then Jaskier would gladly count them as friends. 

Once Geralt had done everything he could to aid the investigation, he escorted Jaskier back to their rooms. Jaskier paced back and forth, his mind whirling with questions. They were the same questions everyone in the palace was asking. Were they safe? How had a werewolf gotten into the palace? How had he eluded the guards? What had he been doing there, and most importantly, would he come back? 

Unlike the rest of the palace, Jaskier had a witcher to answer his questions. While Geralt couldn’t know for certain what the werewolf’s goals had been, it was telling that he had been in the royal apartments. It was even more interesting that he had been there at a time the apartments were usually occupied. Someone, Geralt concluded, either the werewolf or his collaborators, had wanted him to attack the royal family. Since the family was unharmed, it was only a matter of time until he struck again. The last part was the part Geralt appeared most certain of. He made Jaskier promise to carry his silver dagger everywhere, and demanded to know his schedule for the rest of the week. Jaskier complied, reciting his schedule from memory. When he got to the last item, Geralt groaned.

“Another ball? Really?”

“Technically, this one is a masquerade,” Jaskier said, practically bouncing on the spot with excitement. “They’re so much more fun than balls. There’s so much mystery, so much glamour, and -- “

“And so many ways to hide,” Geralt said. “I’m coming with you.”

Jaskier stared at him. And here he’d thought Geralt would cut off his own hand before he consented to go to another party. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re a visiting bard. You’ve got no friends or family here, you’re not obviously armed, and you teach the royal children twice a week. You’re an easy target. Easy to bewitch or kill or replace. I’m the only one here who would know you well enough to realize something was wrong.”

The words were delivered at a slow, easy pace, as if Geralt was discussing nothing more important than the weather. He leaned against the wall as he spoke, perfectly at ease with the idea of bewitching or murdering Jaskier. The entire effect was intimidating, or would have been if Jaskier still had the ability to be intimidated by Geralt. As it was, he saw right through the whole act. While Geralt may have the capability to harm him, he never, ever would. With a grin, he concluded,

“You’re worried about me.”

“And if I am?”

The response silenced the crude joke on the tip of Jaskier’s tongue, and he found himself smiling at Geralt. After a moment, he decided to steer them back onto firmer ground.

“And worried enough to come to a masquerade! You won’t be able to stick to my side all night. I do have a job to do, you know.”

“Won’t need to,” Geralt said. “We spend enough time together, and no werewolf is going to be stupid enough to go anywhere near you.”

It was, Jaskier conceded, a fair point. If he were a monster, he would go to great lengths to avoid witchers, and when unable to avoid them, he would be sure not to do anything to aggravate them. If they knew Geralt was watching him, they would surely stay back. Doubly so, he realized, if they thought they were wed. He hummed, sprawling out on the bed.

“I suppose it would be rather embarrassing if your husband got killed by a monster.”

A muscle in Geralt’s forehead twitched. Otherwise, he kept his face impassive. “It’s the most likely fate of anyone unfortunate enough to marry a witcher.”

Jaskier took a moment to consider that. He considered his experience of life on the path, and the not inconsiderable dangers associated with it. He considered the number of times he had come perilously close to death himself, and the dire warnings Geralt tended to dole out in such situations. Those were the only times Geralt could be truly cruel, trying to push Jaskier away for his own safety. Finally, he considered Geralt’s stories about love and witchers. There were plenty of arguments Jaskier could make about choice and risk and the fact that he was still alive, but he settled for throwing a pillow at Geralt.

“Bollocks. You’re being melodramatic. You can hide behind your witchery-ness all you like, but I know the truth: you’re just lousy at relationships.”

Geralt quirked an eyebrow. There was enough malice in the tiny twitch that Jaskier considered backpedalling, before concluding conceding any ground would only land him in deeper trouble. The only thing to do was double down and pray Geralt caved first. 

“Don’t you give me that look. I’m not the one pining after Yennefer, of all people. Why you would want to be with that horrible witch is beyond me.”

“Yen’s not horrible,” Geralt said, because of course he did. “And I’m not pining.”

“You’re together again?” Jaskier asked, sitting bolt upright on the bed. His heart pounded in fear, and he looked around as if Yennefer could be hiding in any corner, waiting to strike. At the same time, he felt a peculiar sinking feeling in his gut. Neither sensation matched with Geralt’s poorly suppressed snort of laughter.

“No. We sorted everything out.”

Jaskier eyed him suspiciously. “...so you’re together. There were easier ways to kill me, you know, because she is going to eviscerate me when she finds out about this whole... marriage... thing. Do I need to run away? Is Nilfgaard far enough? Ofier? I don't want to go to Ofier, I don't speak the language, but if it's a choice between that and being turned into a newt, I'll take it.”

“Hmm. Better if she doesn’t find out,” Geralt agreed. “Not because of that, though. I told you, we sorted everything out. Yen’s... a friend.”

“Who you occasionally fuck.”

Geralt winced. “No.”

“I’ve _seen_ \- “

“Not recently. Not again.”

“Huh,” Jaskier said, and fell back against the bed, staring at the ceiling. He felt he ought to celebrate, but wasn’t quite sure how. A moment later, it occurred to him that while he thought Geralt escaping was a cause for celebration, Geralt may not feel the same way. “I’m... well, I’m not sorry, I think she was a horrid temptress who treated you awfully and I’m _right_ , but I don’t want you to be sad.”

“Yen’s not horrid. And I’m fine. It was mutual.”

Jaskier winced. “Oh, no. That means it definitely was not.”

“Jaskier - “

“No, no, I know how these things work. Do you know how many mutual breakups I’ve been a part of? None. I left them all, except for the countess, of course, who threw me out without a moment’s notice and shattered my heart. And do you know how many of those people claim it ended mutually?”

“Something tells me you’re going to tell me no matter what,” Geralt said. He tilted his head back until it hit the wall and closed his eyes. Jaskier sighed. He sat up and scrambled over to the edge of the bed closest to Geralt, where he sat cross-legged.

“There’s no shame in it, you know. You’ll get over it. And in the meantime, you and I are going to get horrendously, outrageously drunk about it.”

“Hmm. Might help me put up with your nonsense.”

“You could even talk about it, if you wanted,” Jaskier said. “I’d listen.”

Geralt’s eyes glowed golden when he opened them, and he tilted his head a little, considering. “Vodka first.”

Jaskier summoned a servant to bring them food and drink, while Geralt paced the room. Jaskier did not interrupt him. If he wanted Geralt to drink, he needed to let him secure the place. He would check every nook and cranny for possible threats and only then would he let himself relax. 

When Jaskier returned, he was delighted to find Geralt had pulled out a small bottle of White Gull. He grinned. It was possible to get Geralt drunk on wine or vodka, if one was very patient and took only one drink for every three he did, but it was not a cheap or easy process. White Gull levelled the playing field. Geralt described it as a mild witchers’ hallucinogen, though ‘mild’ was not a word Jaskier would use to describe it. Several different varieties of alcohol were added to the mix and distilled several times over. The result was a drink so potent that adding further alcohol only diluted it. Jaskier was forbidden from trying even one drop, on the grounds that it could be fatal for humans. For witchers, however, it was an excellent way to get drunk.

“Right,” Jaskier said, sitting cross-legged on the bed. He stacked the bottles he’d acquired on the bedside table and poured himself his first drink. “So. Tell me everything.”

“Not much to tell,” Geralt said. He took a shot of White Gull and shook his head before setting the cup down on the bed.

"We talked. We realized that although we care about each other a lot, we're not in love. Maybe never were.”

“Ah!” Jaskier said, understanding at last. “So the sex was bad.”

Geralt choked on his drink.

“There’s no shame in that, Geralt, some women - “

“That wasn’t the problem,” Geralt interrupted. 

“But -- “

“Jaskier, that really wasn’t the problem,” he said emphatically, then paused. “I mean, I wasn’t a fan of the stuffed unicorn. But everything else.”

That sounded like a story Jaskier absolutely had to hear, so he pestered Geralt relentlessly until he caved. He drew a line, however, at exactly what he and Yennefer had done. When Jaskier asked, he simply said ‘sex’ and raised an eyebrow, as if Jaskier were somehow at fault for not knowing everything that encompassed. When Jaskier started listing suggestions, he hummed at each one. Jaskier considered himself fluent in Geralt’s various grunts, but these were entirely opaque. 

“Hmph. Are those grunts all you gave her, too? No wonder she left you.”

Geralt laughed. When he spoke, he slurred his words a little, having downed several shots of White Gull. “Nah. Yen always could get whatever she wanted from me.”

“That - oh,” Jaskier said, and felt himself flush red. He did his level best not to think about what he might do to get certain noises out of Geralt and failed utterly. He stared dazedly at Geralt, lust muddling his thoughts. Geralt looked back at him, his pupils huge and round. It must be later than he had realized, Jaskier thought, or somehow darker than he thought. 

“What about you? You’re always mooning over someone.”

“Oh, you know me,” Jaskier said airily. “Music is my true love. I’ll find company wherever the road takes us, don’t you worry about that.”

“That’s normally the problem,” Geralt grumbled, which Jaskier took offence to. Yes, he had a bad track record, but it wasn’t that bad. He started to list times his dalliances had ended well. Unfortunately, the list was short, and shorter still when Geralt started poking holes in his stories and pointing out all the times he had found him being chased, assaulted, or otherwise in strife because of his tendency to sleep around. That turned into reminiscing about past times spent together. With each story, Jaskier’s heart swelled with affection for his friend. He shuffled closer to Geralt and leaned against him, basking in the warmth that radiated off his body. In that moment, Jaskier thought, there was nothing that could have tempted him away from this, not fame nor fortune nor love.

“You know,” he said, tipsy. “We make a good team.”

Geralt hummed an affirmative sound. The smile on Jaskier’s face widened, and he reached up to wrap an arm around Geralt’s shoulders. His hand ended up resting near his neck and tangling in his silver hair. When Geralt did not push him away, he made a happy little sound and closed his eyes. This was bliss.

“Maybe being married isn’t the worst thing that could happen to me. Not if it was you,” he mumbled. Beside him, Geralt tensed, but Jaskier was far too drunk and sleepy to care. He tilted his head up towards Geralt’s face and opened his eyes, his expression soft and lax with affection. Very smug, he said, 

“You’re stuck with me now. Can’t get rid of your husband.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Geralt said. Pleased, Jaskier lowered his head to Geralt’s shoulder once more and closed his eyes. 

He did not remember falling asleep, but when Jaskier next opened his eyes, the room was dark. Instead of sitting propped against Geralt’s chest, he was lying on his side, stripped of his fancy clothes and left in his underthings, as he preferred to be to sleep. The sheets had been pulled back and pulled up to his shoulders. Most peculiarly of all, Geralt was plastered against his back. Despite the warmth of his body, his chest was all but still, and he did not stir when Jaskier twisted his neck to look. He was very deeply asleep. His nose was pressed against Jaskier’s hair, and when he tilted his head he could see silvery strands of hair spread across the pillow. 

A smile spread across Jaskier’s lips. A moment later, he realized he was smiling. The realization came with a flood of feelings, and he let out a small huff. He’d been putting off thinking for days now, but now, it seemed, there was no escaping the thoughts that had been haunting him. He was forced to face the truth. Geralt was attractive. More to the point, Jaskier was attracted to him. 

This was not, strictly speaking, news. His awareness of the attraction waxed and waned like the moon, but it had been there ever since he had first decided to follow Geralt. At times, it simmered so softly in the background he scarcely noticed. Those were the good times. He did not need to fear that his strange behaviour would tip Geralt off, and he could flirt and fuck as many pretty strangers as he pleased without one ounce of regret. Other times, his desire flared hot. When that happened, Jaskier invariably bolted. As soon as he noticed his heart fluttering at Geralt’s smile, he made his excuses and fled to the nearest city. It was the only way he could manage the flood of emotions and desire without risking throwing himself at Geralt. 

He couldn’t run this time. Nor could he weasel even a modicum of distance, not without throwing their whole charade into doubt. He had committed to a farce of a romantic relationship with Geralt for the duration of winter. He would have to spend the rest of the season walking a fine, fine line between persuading the court and keeping his true feelings a secret. It would not be an easy task. Even if Geralt was slow went it came to emotions, he was observant, and he would doubtlessly notice any strange behaviour from Jaskier. And his behaviour was sure to be strange. How could it be anything but, when Geralt proved such a spectacular actor? He allowed Jaskier every liberty and showed him ample affection. Even if he knew it was a ruse, his poor, stupid heart would swell at every little gesture. And out of the public eye, the line between friend and lover would blur. It had already started. 

When they had first started travelling, Jaskier had learnt quickly that Geralt did not like to be touched. Over the years, he had pushed the boundary inch by inch, until at last he could get away with a pat on the arm or a friendly hug without Geralt flinching or staring at him. Having seen Geralt interact with others, he recognized the allowance as the honour it was. More recently, Geralt had been forced to tolerate more and more in the name of their ruse. Even in private, Jaskier had been unconsciously pushing the lines, and not once had he pushed back. That, somehow, had lead to this: Geralt curled around him in sleep, his arms cradling Jaskier close like he was something precious. It was a remarkably comfortable prison. And a prison it was, as with Geralt asleep, there was no hope of Jaskier escaping without waking him. Awake, Geralt took care not to use his full strength to hold Jaskier in place, even when they ended up tussling on the ground after some petty argument. Asleep, he pinned him to his chest without even meaning to. 

At least, Jaskier thought, it was a nice chest, and a nice arm. In the silver moonlight, he could see the scars covering Geralt’s forearm, some wide enough to disrupt the hair on his arm. If Jaskier strained forward, he could tilt back enough to catch a glimpse of his bicep, similarly scarred and unfairly large. Jaskier was not a weak man, but Geralt’s muscles were in another league entirely. With a happy little hum, Jaskier shifted back so his spine pressed against Geralt’s chest once more. Perhaps he ought to feel guilty, taking pleasure from such proximity without Geralt’s knowledge, but he had never pretended to be a good man. That was Geralt’s job. Jaskier was put on the earth to bring and experience pleasure, and he would not deny himself this comfort. As such, he stayed awake for some time, simply enjoying the feel of Geralt’s arms around him. He would deal with the repercussions in the morning. For now, he was warm, and sleepy, and felt safer than he ever had. When he finally drifted off to sleep, it was with a smile on his face. 

He woke the next morning sprawled across the empty bed. After a few seconds, he remembered why that was not a good thing. He had gone to sleep cuddling Geralt, and Geralt had undoubtedly woken up to the same. The fact that there was no clue as to his response suggested it had become normal procedure. Jaskier ran a hand through his hair and huffed. Should he mention it? Geralt had resolved to ignore it, and perhaps Jaskier should follow his lead. But Geralt ignored a lot of things he shouldn’t, like gaping wounds, emotions, and the value of his own life. If it made him uncomfortable, would he say something? And if it did, what could they do? It hadn’t been Jaskier clutching him close like a child clinging on to a favourite toy. If Geralt decided in his sleep he wanted to cuddle, there was little Jaskier could do to stop him. 

Fortunately, Jaskier did not have much opportunity to fret over Geralt in the following days. The presence of a werewolf in the castle put Geralt’s services in high demand. Instead of lazy lunches with Jaskier and studious afternoons, he went straight from training to helping secure the palace against a werewolf. Jaskier only saw him at night, when he crawled into bed and fell asleep in seconds. Jaskier’s own schedule was no better. The upcoming masquerade had him working double time, writing and training other bards and putting the finishing touches on his ensemble. Despite Geralt’s dire warnings about the danger, Jaskier was determined the night would be a success.


	6. Masquerade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: description of injuries and medical care, and also the implication and discussion of sex
> 
> Despite all odds, I am updating on schedule.

Jaskier did not remember Geralt’s offer to escort him to the masquerade until he pranced up on stage. Despite the thrill of performing, the thought made his heart sink. As dearly as he loved Geralt, he was not known for his dress sense, nor his understanding of court etiquette. Without Jaskier there to guide him, he could cause all kinds of offence before Jaskier had made his way through half his set. He only prayed he had the good sense not to show up in his armor. Jaskier scanned the crowd as he performed, but he did not see Geralt in the crowd. He must have changed his mind and stayed in their quarters. The thought made Jaskier’s heart sink, though it was undoubtedly for the best. The masquerade was Geralt’s idea of hell. The wine was not strong enough to get a witcher drunk, and the only food was hors d'oeuvres. Everyone was dressed in fine silk and lace, and the air was heavy with the perfume of hundreds of nobles determined to impress. 

It was nearly midnight by the time Jaskier was excused from the stage. People groaned and begged for an encore, but a troupe of three bards stood up to take his place and left them satisfied. Freed from his duties, Jaskier made a beeline for the bar. He had just finished his first glass of champagne when someone stepped up close behind him. They reached around him, offering a full glass of his favourite wine.

“Nice set.”

“Geralt!” Jaskier exclaimed, turning on the spot with a beaming smile. His jaw dropped. He took a step back, looking Geralt up and down with wide eyes. He’d been afraid Geralt would refuse to dress well for the masquerade, but it hadn’t occurred to him to fear the opposite. His armor was nowhere in sight. In its place was an outfit of red and black, tailored to accentuate the wide set of his shoulders and the narrow incline of his waist. The crimson of his trousers clung to his skin, and Jaskier very nearly whimpered at the sight. It wasn’t an outfit Jaskier would have picked in a million years, but it was stylish, and appropriate, and fit Geralt to ‘T’. When Jaskier found out who his tailor was, he was going to order so many outfits. 

After far too long, he realized he was staring, and quickly looked at Geralt’s face. Most of his expression was concealed between a mask depicting a silver wolf, but his mouth was visible and smirking.

“Something wrong?”

“You’ve been holding out on me,” Jaskier said faintly. He took the wine from Geralt and downed it in one gulp. “You - fuck. Gods damn it Geralt, you fucking prick. How long have you had this outfit?”

“A few hours now. You told me not to embarrass you.”

Shame swelled up in Jaskier, and he shook his head until it cleared. “I was an idiot. You look incredible.”

For a moment, Jaskier thought he had said something wrong as he watched the smirk on Geralt’s face fade. It was only when it settled into a tiny, uncertain smile that he realized the opposite. His heart, already pounding rapidly, seemed to skip a few beats at the gentle curve of Geralt’s mouth. It was a smile, shy and a little unsure. Jaskier thought it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He stared for a few moments, before Geralt broke the silence.

“Do you...” he said, and trailed off. His eyes flicked towards the dance floor. Jaskier’s vision pitched before him, and he found himself grasping Geralt’s arm to stabilise himself. He’d bullied Geralt into learning to dance in the hope of nagging him into a single spin on the dance floor, perhaps at the very end of winter. He hadn’t expected Geralt to ask him to dance. 

“You know, when you told me you were coming to the masquerade, I didn’t expect this,” he admitted. “I mean, the drinks are weak, the food - “

“Is terrible, and the company worse,” Geralt nodded. “But I have a job to do. And you wanted me here.”

The words made Jaskier’s head spin. He struggled to formulate a response, too busy swooning over Geralt’s words. It was normal for Geralt to put Jaskier’s needs above his own, and not unheard of for him to put his desires before his own, but getting him to admit it was like pulling teeth. To hear it stated so plainly made Jaskier’s heart soar. The entire scene seemed like something out of a dream. He might have wondered if it was a dream, if Geralt had not remained stubbornly dreadful at dancing. Oh, he had grace, and he could move, but despite their hours of practice, he still moved like he was on a hunt. To the outside observer, it looked awkward at best. Some people looked on with concern, as if Geralt were a predator that could pounce at any moment. There were few people who could stand to have a witcher look at them like some kind of prey, much less flourish under the attention. Fortunately, Jaskier could not think of anywhere he would rather be. He smiled widely as they danced. It was not often he got to enjoy Geralt’s full attention and he was loving it. 

A scream broke the scene. Before Jaskier could even think about reacting, Geralt had positioned himself between Jaskier and the source of the noise. A moment later, he barked a coarse order for Jaskier to stay put and bolted off in the direction of the sound. The nobles around him were in a panic, some fleeing for the doors, others gathering in small groups. A woman near him burst into tears from the stress of it all. Others craned their necks to see over the crowd, trying to figure out what was going on. More shouts and screams came from the direction Geralt had run off in. 

A group of guardsmen surrounded the dance floor, ushering small groups of nobles off to more easily defended areas. They wore the same livery as Geralt’s new friends. When it was Jaskier’s turn to be ushered away, one of them looked at him and said,

“You’re Geralt’s bard, aren’t you?”

When Jaskier nodded, he found himself assigned two personal guards. 

“He’s right far gone on you, you know,” said the younger of the two. His companion slapped him on the back of the head and apologized.

“Sorry, sir. It’s not our business.”

“No, no, tell me, I’m curious,” Jaskier said instantly. Another scream rent the air, along with the smell of burning hair and flesh. Jaskier ignored it. “Tell me everything.”

“Asked our advice about tonight. We all helped, we did. Aveline and her sister helped with the tailor, and Sam smuggled in a bottle of Fiorano.”

“Aye, and it’s just as well he ignored most of the advice,” the older guard said with a snort. “Bloody useless, most of it was. I don’t know what he was thinking, asking a bunch of old soldiers for advice.”

Jaskier put one hand on his heart and used the other to fan at his face. As theatrical as the response was, it was not entirely put on. He could almost picture it, Geralt and the soldiers gathered around the salle, all of them helplessly out of depth when it came to matters of courtly romance. Geralt must have been desperate. 

“I thank you all for your help. Without your aid, I fear his courage may have left him, and he would have skipped tonight altogether.”

“And miss your performance?” 

The two guards laughed at the very idea. The response baffled Jaskier. While he had no doubt that Geralt enjoyed his music, it was hardly a rarity for him to hear Jaskier. At times he even complained about it, when the hour and audience demanded more basic bawdy drinking songs than any true music. 

Another scream pierced the air. This one was followed by cautious applause, slowly giving way to raucous cheering. As Jaskier craned his neck to see what was happening, Geralt staggered through the crowd. Four parallel slashes ran diagonally across his chest. Despite leaving a literal trail of blood behind him, he walked with his head high. He nodded a greeting to the two men standing by Jaskier.

“Your commander is with the queen. Probably won’t see you at the training ground for a few days. Honeycutt says if I show up before the week is out, she’ll make sure I’m crawling when I leave.”

“She isn’t what you have to worry about,” Jaskier butted in. He stepped into place by Geralt’s side, shrugging one of the witcher’s arms around his shoulders. He bid goodnight to the guardsmen and marched Geralt straight to their rooms. Tellingly, Geralt did not argue. Either the wound was bothering him more than he let on, or he was too tired to pick a fight. Neither was a good sign. He let Jaskier lead him to their rooms and seat him on the edge of the bed. 

“Is it just what I can see, or is there more?” Jaskier asked.

“Just this,” Geralt grunted. Relieved, Jaskier helped him remove the tattered remains of his clothing. Later, he would mourn the outfit with an appropriate level of drama and regret, but for now, his number one priority was taking care of Geralt. It was a job he loathed, but left to his own devices, Geralt would not care for himself properly. It fell to Jaskier to do that. He fetched both their medical kit and Geralt’s potion bag, setting them both on the bed beside Geralt. Medicine was not a field he had ever held a particular interest in, but after years with Geralt, necessity had taught him the basics. He would never be mistaken for a medic, but he could now at least help Geralt without vomiting into his lap. He began by cleaning the wound. He then rifled through Geralt’s potion back until he found a dark bottle sealed with green wax. Triumphant, he lifted it up, only for Geralt to pluck it from his hands. 

“Gloves,” Geralt reminded him. With a sigh, Jaskier pulled out the leather gloves from the medical kit. They were made from draconid leather, custom-fit for Jaskier’s hands so he could keep his dexterity while handling toxic materials. One drop, Geralt always warned him, just one drop on his skin was all it would take to kill him. And so no matter how badly wounded Geralt was, Jaskier started with the gloves. Geralt lay back when Jaskier reclaimed the vial. He removed the wax and tipped the vial over Geralt’s wounds, letting the foul liquid drip into each gash. Smoke rose where the liquid met his skin. Jaskier could only imagine how painful this step of healing must be. 

The topical was followed by two potions which Geralt downed with a grunt of disgust. The last step was bandaging the wounds. As the potions took effect, Jaskier had to take extra care with his work. Geralt began to jump at shadows, and any unexpected touch made him flinch. To soothe him, Jaskier hummed as he worked, keeping the tune simple and repetitive. By the time he was done, Geralt could barely keep his eyes open. It took very little coaxing to get him to lie under the covers, and once his head hit the pillow, he was fast asleep. For now, he was calm, his face relaxed with sleep. Unable to resist, Jaskier leaned in and kissed his forehead. Geralt made a soft noise, not unlike a cat disturbed from sleep by a familiar touch. Jaskier chuckled and pulled back.

“It’s just me. Go back to sleep.”

As far as Jaskier could tell, he did, for he made no more noise. Jaskier continued humming to himself as he prepared for bed, putting away the medical supplies and changing into attire more appropriate for sleeping. Even when ready for bed, he stayed awake another hour, finding small tasks that needed to be done, like organizing his underwear. It wasn’t that he was worried. He had seen Geralt come through much worse without the help of the medicines he had taken tonight. But he hated knowing Geralt was in pain. Worse, he knew the side-effects of the healing potions Geralt had took were not always pleasant. If Geralt was going to suffer nightmares or hallucinations, Jaskier intended to be awake to help him through it. But as the night crept towards morning, exhaustion got the better of him. He crawled into bed beside Geralt and at last went to sleep. 

When he woke the next morning, Jaskier was warm, still sleepy, and very reluctant to get up. He pressed his face a little closer against the source of the warmth and whined. The sound of a rumbling chuckle woke him properly. He opened his eyes and found himself with his face pressed against Geralt’s hip. He had wrapped both arms around one massive thigh, hugging it close and pressing himself against the entire length of Geralt’s leg. When he looked up, he saw Geralt’s mouth twisted into a gentle smile.

“Sleep well?”

“Mmph. Sorry,” Jaskier said. He pushed himself up and pulled his legs under him so he could kneel on the bed. “How are you feeling?”

The cuts on Geralt’s chest had scabbed overnight, and the larger wound had begun to close. At Geralt’s insistence, Jaskier reapplied the tincture to the wounds. At his own insistence, he then rebandaged the wounds and helped Geralt through to the bath. Jaskier passed Geralt the soap and took a seat by the edge of the tub. His presence there had two purposes: to obtain a story, and to help should Geralt’s injuries cause him any problems. 

“So. Spill,” Jaskier demanded, the instant Geralt was settled. “What happened last night?”

“Werewolf.”

“You know I’m going to need more details than that,” Jaskier scolded. He dipped his hand into the water to splash Geralt, earning a glare. “None of that. Details.”

Word by painful word, he extracted the story from Geralt. The werewolf had been disguised as an important diplomat. When he approached the queen, he had shifted and attacked. It had been sheer luck that the queen had been dressed in a gown augmented with narrow, shimmering silver chains. The wolf had recoiled after the first blow, howling in agony at the burn of silver. That was when Geralt arrived. Despite being unarmed, he leapt into the fray, using a combination of kicks, punches, and signs to take the beast down. 

“You punched a werewolf to death,” Jaskier said, awed.

“Igni did most of the damage. I - “

“Shh, this is going in my next song. What about kicks? Did you do any of those sexy spinning kicks?”

Geralt sighed, sounding absolutely exhausted. “Yes.”

“Brilliant,” Jaskier said, and scribbled it down in his notebook. He continued to interrogate Geralt for fifteen minutes. He only stopped when Geralt lifted his arms to wash his hair and winced when the motion pulled on his wounds. Tutting, Jaskier put his notebook away and scooted over. Geralt lowered his arms back into the water. The complete compliance worried Jaskier. It was hardly unusual for him to help when Geralt was injured, but he normally had to push past at least a token “I’m fine”, if not battle several hours of “witchers don’t need help”. Perhaps Geralt had finally learnt that protesting too long got him nothing but cold water and insults. 

This time, Geralt let him wash his hair without argument. He did not protest when Jaskier used his own shampoo, leaving his hair soft and smelling of citrus. Taking that as a good sign, Jaskier massaged Geralt’s scalp, rubbing his fingers in circles against his skull. Geralt let out a quiet hum of content and sank a little deeper into the water. It was a small expression of pleasure, but it spoke volumes. There was something about Geralt, Jaskier mused, that pushed past the way he tended to think of himself. For all Jaskier liked making other people smile, he did not particularly like taking care of people. He was a creature of comfort first and foremost. He was happiest with a stomach full of rich food and fine wine, and his preferred place to sleep was a large bed with silken sheets. And yet he would trade every luxury in the world to walk by Geralt’s side. And here he was, grinning like a loon because Geralt was enjoying his attention. He would wash Geralt's hair every day if it got such a reaction.

After a long time, Jaskier sighed and sat back on his heels. “All right. Time to rinse.”

Geralt obediently dipped his head under the water. Jaskier was waiting with a towel when he came up, which he used to gently dry Geralt’s hair. He fetched a second towel when Geralt stood, then left him alone to dress.

When he stepped into the hallway outside their rooms, he was met by two guards. He frowned.

“Are we under arrest?”

One of the guards looked too shocked to talk, and the other shook her head frantically. “Of course not. But Geralt’s hurt.”

Jaskier stared at her, confused. “And?”

“He’s our friend,” she said defensively, and Jaskier fell just the tiniest bit in love. “We’re not going to leave him while he’s vulnerable.”

“You’re worried,” Jaskier said, his eyes widening. He bounced a little on the spot, clasping his hands together. “Oh, that is - brilliant, really, that’s so sweet. Except, well, unless he’s done something drastic since I left him in the bath, he isn’t actually all that vulnerable.”

The guards looked unimpressed. “Sir, we saw him last night. He put on a brave face, but we saw how much he was bleeding.”

“Well, yes,” Jaskier said, and hesitated. There was one very obvious reason Geralt was fine, but he was not entirely sure he wanted to point it out. He knew how people tended to treat those viewed as ‘other’. After chewing on his lip for a few seconds, he decided to go for it. If he didn’t remind them now, something would do it sooner or later.

“You know he’s not exactly 100% human, yes?”

“I thought you were supposed to be his husband,” one of them spat. Jaskier held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“I am on record as being very much a fan of all Geralt’s attributes, human and non-human,” he insisted. “Especially the non-human, sometimes, because it helps him heal quickly. He’ll be as good as new in a week at most. I was just stepping out to get him something to eat.”

“We’ll have something brought for you,” the guard promised. Jaskier left him with a series of requests and returned to Geralt. He found him sitting in Jaskier’s window seat, wearing nothing but trousers and a loose-fitting shirt. Jaskier took a moment to admire him. It wasn’t often he got to see Geralt relaxed, but when he did, it was a treat. His face was tilted slightly upwards into the sun, his features slack and relaxed. 

“You’re staring,” he said, without opening his eyes.

“And if I am?”

Geralt opened his eyes and looked at him. He hummed to himself and stretched, carefully, before getting to his feet.

“You could be doing something more useful, like getting that breakfast you promised.”

“Yes, well, some of your friends are feeling a bit overprotective,” Jaskier told him. “We’ve got a guard, you know that? They think you’re vulnerable just because that beast got a few swipes in, and I don’t count because I’m apparently chopped liver, so you need protection.”

“Chopped liver would probably be more useful in a fight. They might slip on it,” Geralt said. Jaskier puffed up and put a hand on his hip, the other jabbing a finger in Geralt’s direction. He tried several times to start a sentence, but he never got more than two words in before his outrage overwhelmed him. Geralt smirked. He clapped Jaskier on the shoulder as he walked passed and steered him into the sitting area.

“Lucky I don’t keep you around for your fighting prowess.”

“I should think not,” Jaskier sniffed, still feeling put out about the sarcastic remark. “I’m a poet and a scholar. I’ll have you know I graduated top of my class, even in mathematics, and that was dreadful, Geralt.”

“I don’t keep you around for that, either.”

“Yes, well,” Jaskier said. A sinking feeling settled into his chest. He took a seat and stared at the door as if it were something fascinating, and not just a convenient place to look that was not Geralt’s face. Most of the time, he felt perfectly secure in his place by Geralt’s side. It was only when he stopped and thought about what talents he had and how ill-suited they were to the witcher’s Path that doubt crept in. 

Instead of sitting down, Geralt crouched in front of him so they were at eye level. He did not force eye contact, but there was no avoiding the fact that he was there. “And it’s just as well you don’t keep me around for my singing ability.”

“Of course not. I follow you around because I like you. You’re my friend.”

As soon as he said it, he saw the trap he had fallen into. He pulled a face. There was a knowing smile on Geralt’s face, but it did not quite reach his eyes. The reaction did not quite fit with what Jaskier had expected, and he wondered what had caused the lingering sadness in Geralt’s eyes. Did he harbour the same doubts as Jaskier? Without thinking, he reached out and cupped Geralt’s cheek with one hand.

“Geralt you must know I mean that. I know you think too little of yourself, but you are the dearest friend I have.”

Geralt slipped from the crouch to his knees, his expression blank and unreadable. Before Jaskier could panic, there was a knock at the door, followed by the creak of the door opening.

“We brought - oh.”

Jaskier looked from Geralt to the door, where one of the guards was staring at them and turning a spectacular shade of red. He looked back to Geralt. In a low, rumbling growl, Geralt said, 

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you barging in was rude?”

He sounded much angrier than he had any reason to be. When he made eye contact with Jaskier, he winked, and wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeve. The implication was not lost on Jaskier. Heat spread over his cheeks and churned in his gut as he considered the various applications of Geralt’s mouth while on his knees. It was the kind of fantasy that haunted his dreams when his lust for his friend was at its peak. And, to Geralt’s credit, it was the kind of thing husbands did for one another. He made eye-contact with Geralt, who grinned back. He had missed no detail when fixing his appearance, going so far as to let his pupils blow and black and wide. With how few people knew witchers had conscious control of their pupils, that would sell the lie better than anything Jaskier could say or do. Geralt then reached out and touched Jaskier’s hips for a movement before he stood up. The movement was slow and graceful and all the more beautiful for the mischief in his eyes. 

“Sorry, Geralt,” the guard mumbled. Perhaps the sheer magnitude of their embarrassment overwhelmed them, but they did not seem as scared as most people were of an angry witcher. They nevertheless cringed as they crossed the room and set down two large platters of food. To Jaskier’s delight, his request had been filled to the letter. There was twice as much food as one might normally expect to eat, and all of it things he knew Geralt especially liked. 

“You should have known better.”

“We thought you’d be in bed!” the guard protested. Geralt raised a single eyebrow, and the guard somehow managed to turn an even deeper shade of red. “You’re injured. You should be resting.”

“I’ve rested enough,” Geralt said.

“Right, sir,” the guard said, and bolted.

Looking rather smug, Geralt sat in the chair beside the table and began to eat. All signs of his earlier bad mood had vanished. He snickered a little when he heard the door click shut, and he raised his eyebrows at Jaskier. A sigh of relief escaped Jaskier. If Geralt was in a good enough mood to cause trouble, he could not have been hurt too deeply. Jaskier had just stumbled upon his usual discomfort around emotion. 

“You’re quiet,” Geralt said. There was a question lurking beneath the observation, and not one Jaskier wanted to answer.

“Just pitying that poor guard. I’ve never seen someone turn that shade of red.”

“It’s their own fault. Even I know better than to barge in like that,” Geralt said with a shrug.

“Yes, well,” Jaskier said, and picked up a piece of bread. After chewing and swallowing, he said, “We knew they were coming. Doesn’t that make it seem a little odd?”

“Jaskier, I’ve walked in on you having sex enough times to know that doesn’t stop you.”

It was Jaskier’s turn to flush. It was an accusation he couldn’t deny, though he did find it rather hypocritical. He and Geralt had walked in on each other more times than he liked to count. Living in such close quarters as they did inevitably led to such mistakes. The only time Geralt’s presence interfered was when his partner was spooked by the intrusion, or the one memorable time Jaskier had followed a succubus to bed. 

“Well. You’re going to have the same reputation now.”

Geralt shrugged. “We’re supposed to be married. Pretty sure they already think you have me wrapped around your finger.”

“Huh,” Jaskier said, and for a few moments he was silent. He’d never thought of it that way. He’d assumed that even in love, Geralt would only begrudgingly accept his affection, and that it would be a battle to get him to adjust his life to make space for Jaskier. Geralt, it seemed, had made a different assumption. Jaskier indulged in a moment of fantasy as he considered everything he could do with that kind of affection. The idea was enough to make his head spin. As he felt his cheeks turn pink, he forced himself to think in more practical terms as to what he could do now. After a moment, a smirk spread over his face.

“Oh, I am so taking advantage of this.”

“It won’t work in private, you know,” Geralt reminded him.

“Yes, yes, I’m well aware of that,” Jaskier said, waving a hand distractedly. “But still, the possibilities!”

Contrary to what Jaskier might have expected, Geralt did not seem alarmed at Jaskier’s delighted crowing. Even knowing Jaskier was plotting to take advantage, he looked more amused than angry. The sight of his tiny half-smile made Jaskier want to see how far he could push him.

“I could make you go shopping with me.”

“You already do that.”

“I’ll make you dance.”

Geralt raised his eyebrows. “Like last night?”

“Last night doesn’t count. You were - well, you were different last night. I never got a chance to ask you why.”

“Hm,” Geralt said. He leaned back in his chair and slowly ate a small fruit pastry, staring at Jaskier the entire time. For once, Jaskier waited. If Geralt needed to think, then the quickest way to get a straight answer out of him was to sit quietly and let him do so. Past experience told him that if he pushed, Geralt would simply make something up, most likely something sarcastic and condescending. Just when he thought he was about to burst from impatience, Geralt sat forward and stood up.

“I’m gonna take some Black Gull. Swallow, too.”

Jaskier gaped at him, his mouth working soundlessly. After a few moments, he asked,

“Are you really going to drug yourself to avoid giving me an answer?”

“Wound’s healing well. If I take another dose now, I’ll be back to normal in the morning,” Geralt said, which was a ‘yes’ if Jaskier had ever heard one. He huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. 

“I don’t know why I’m surprised. You always were useless with emotions.”

Geralt did not try to argue. He patted Jaskier on the shoulder as he passed, then moved on to the bedroom. A turbulent mix of confusion, anger, and disappointment swirled in Jaskier’s mind. He glared at the remains of their breakfast as if it was to blame for Geralt’s behaviour. It was only when he heard Geralt grunt at the foul taste of Black Gull that he realized Geralt had given him one vital piece of information. Whatever had prompted the previous night’s behaviour was something he did not want to talk about. That alone was not much to go on, but Jaskier knew Geralt well. He could be remarkably candid when he wanted to be. There were topics that he refused to speak on, of course, but even those he usually admitted his reasons for not speaking. For Geralt to clam up and drug himself to avoid conversation, it could only involve emotions of some kind. The only question was what emotions they were.


	7. Tune

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a busy weekend, so I'm updating a couple of days early.
> 
> Thank you everyone for all your comments and kudos! Y'all really keep me writing when I'm stuck. The only content warning here is that Geralt is kind of stoned from his potions for part of it.

Jaskier puzzled over Geralt's motivations for the better part of an hour. He occasionally paused, writing down a line or two in his notebook. As annoying as it was to be left in the dark, it did have the potential to be good song material. People always found brooding, aloof heroes compelling. Having known Geralt for years, Jaskier could tell them that brooding was really just a term for sulking, and that his silence disappeared around people he was comfortable with. In its place came a special blend of wry humour, loyalty, and a surprising amount of dick jokes. But people didn’t want to hear about Geralt of Rivia drunk and giggling over the phrase “grasp it firmly”; they wanted him suffering in stoic, manly silence, plagued by... well, Jaskier had not yet worked out the hook for his song. Whatever the real problem was, he would not sing of it. He may air most of his dirty laundry for the world to see, but he would not break Geralt’s trust. 

Small moans started to come from the bedroom. They grew progressively louder as time crept by, slowly giving way to shouting and the occasional scream. Jaskier sighed and pinched his nose. This was the part he hated most about witcher potions. Every now and then, the hallucinogens triggered an episode like this, where Geralt was left helpless in the grasp of terrifying visions. When Jaskier went to check on him, he was thrashing and moaning on the bed. The sheets were drenched with sweat and his hair was wild. Jaskier took a moment to consider his options. Geralt needed grounding. Touch was normally the most effective way to do that, but with the way Geralt was thrashing, there was a good chance Jaskier would get hurt before he could get close enough to help. There was only one thing for it, then. 

He picked up his lute and settled into the little seat by the window. He closed his eyes and blocked out the sound of Geralt’s screams. When he started to play, he picked a sweet, simple melody. He let his mind drift as he played. As Geralt’s screams and moans faded, he found his mind wandering down more romantic paths. Before he knew what he was doing, he was playing love song after love song. It was just as well his audience was unconscious. Geralt may not know a great deal about music, but even he might wonder about the yearning underlying Jaskier’s songs. It made Jaskier wonder, that much was certain. 

He was eventually interrupted by the sound of Geralt calling his name in a hoarse tone. Jaskier paused. When he looked over to the bed, Geralt stared back at him. Despite the light in the room, his pupils were dilated, and his muscles were slack and loose. Experimentally, Jaskier lifted a hand and moved it first to his right, then to his left. Geralt’s eyes tracked the movement slowly. When he started to play again, he hummed.

“Pretty,” he mumbled. Jaskier bit the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing. While he may be awake, Geralt was still under the influence of his hallucinogens. Jaskier’s music had soothed him more than he had expected, taking him from the worst to the best case scenario. Taking hallucinogens was never a good experience, but this was as close as it came to pleasant. Geralt had once described this particular state as like floating. As long as nothing disturbed him and he was certain he was safe, he could sit quietly and watch the world drift by until his body processed the drugs. When insecure, it was terrifying, as he could not maintain proper awareness of his surroundings. If he was smiling now, it could only mean that he associated Jaskier’s music with safety. 

With a lax, lazy smile on his face, Geralt asked hopefully, “Keep playing?”

Delighted, Jaskier complied. For two whole hours, Geralt lay on his side and stared at him with widened pupils, listening to him play. Every now and then, Geralt made eye contact and blinked slowly and deliberately. Jaskier had no idea what such a gesture might mean, but it plainly had meaning: when he returned it, Geralt smiled and let out a low, rumbling purr. When not blinking at Jaskier, he lay on the bed and listened to him play. Occasionally, he hummed along, or tapped his fingers against the bed, making Jaskier practically glow with pleasure. But all good things must come to an end, and after the first couple of hours Geralt began to doze. Not long after he started to nod off he was fast asleep. 

Dinner was delivered in the early evening. Instead of the guards Jaskier had expected, the food was delivered by Mother Nadia.

“I heard your husband was gravely injured. I have some skill with healing. I may be able to save him,” she said. 

Flabbergasted, Jaskier stared at her. She made her way towards the bedroom, and Jaskier stepped between her and the door. Geralt was very particular about who saw him while under the influence of his potions. Jaskier may count her as a friend, but that did not mean he was going to let her set foot in the bedroom when he knew Geralt would not want her there. He held his hands up with his palms facing outward and said,

“I don’t know what rumours you’ve heard, but we’re doing quite fine here, actually. No healing necessary. We’ve done all the witchery things to help him heal, and he’ll be right as rain come morning.”

“And what about you, dear child?” Nadia asked, putting a kindly hand on Jaskier’s elbow. 

“Me?” Jaskier echoed, baffled. 

“It cannot be easy, seeing your beloved so grievously wounded.”

“I think you and I have a different idea of what counts as a grievous wound,” Jaskier said. “He’s fine, really. I’m fine. We’re both fine. Are you fine?”

“Very well. But if he's not, you could try giving him this,” Nadia said. She pulled out a small pouch filled with dried herbs and leaves. Jaskier sniffed it, then immediately wondered why he had done so. Despite years spent with Geralt, he could just about sort plants into three categories: trees, plants Geralt liked, and miscellaneous. Given a mix of dried plants in a bag, he could be confident in the fact that they were herbs, but little else. He listened attentively as Nadia instructed how to make a healing tea out of the leaves.

“I’ll give it to him when he wakes up,” Jaskier promised. It was not technically a lie, as he did intend to show Geralt the little bag once he was sober. As useless as it was, it was a sign that someone cared if Geralt lived or died, and that was the kind of thing he needed reminding of at every opportunity. Once he had promised to give the leaves to Geralt, he and Nadia spent a few minutes chatting and trading gossip before the elderly woman left. Even if the tea was useless, the visit from Nadia had lifted Jaskier’s spirits. He returned to Geralt’s room with a spring in his step to wait out the rest of Geralt’s recovery. 

When Geralt did finally wake, Jaskier shoved the herbs Nadia had given him in his face with glee, telling him all about the visit. Geralt crinkled his nose. He peered in the pouch and made a disgusted noise, passing it back to Jaskier.

“I knew there was a reason I didn’t like that woman.”

Jaskier stared at him, baffled. “What?”

“Some idiots think liquorice is poison for witchers,” Geralt grunted. 

“This is poison?” Jaskier exclaimed. He held the pouch out at arm’s length, staring at it in horror. Gods, he’d nearly poisoned Geralt. After over a century of facing down the vilest monsters the continent had to offer, he’d nearly been taken out by Jaskier’s incompetence. Should they burn it? If the smoke was toxic, that might make things worse. The best thing he could do was get it as far, far away from Geralt as possible. He took a few steps towards the door. 

“No. It’s superstitious claptrap. It tastes foul, but anyone with a tongue can tell that.”

“Can I burn it?” Jaskier asked. Geralt nodded, so Jaskier tossed the pouch into the fire burning in the hearth. Pale and shaking, he took a seat on the edge of the bed. “I can’t believe I almost poisoned you. I can’t believe Nadia tried to poison you.”

“She might not have known. It’s an old superstition, mostly coming from Redania. And it's used in a lot of brews for digestive issues elsewhere.”

“You say that like you’re defending her,” Jaskier frowned.

“I’m not. But we can’t be sure of anything, not yet. There’s not enough evidence.”

As much as Jaskier hated to admit it, he had a point. Licorice was harmless to most of the population, and if most people didn’t know the rumours, it may well have been a harmless misunderstanding. A reasonable person would give Nadia the benefit of the doubt and wait for more evidence. But Jaskier was not a reasonable person. His blood boiled at the idea of harm being done to Geralt. Even if Geralt insisted they did nothing, one thing was certain, and that was that Jaskier would never trust any priestess again. 

The next day, Jaskier woke at dawn by the bed shifting beneath him. He opened his eyes and squinted at Geralt, who had made it halfway out of bed.

“I’m going to train.”

Jaskier made a negative noise and wrapped his arms around his waist, trying and failing to pull him back to bed. Geralt’s hands came down to rest over his forearms, but he did not try to pry Jaskier off. When he did not comply or pull away, Jaskier managed to drag himself closer to wakefulness and said,

“Stay. You need more time to heal.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, but Jaskier ignored the warning in his voice and ploughed on.

“We can go to the market. Wouldn’t that be nice? See the city. Just the two of us”

There was a long pause as Geralt considered his argument. Then, to his delight, Geralt swung his legs back up on the bed and lowered back down to the bed.

“I suppose I can stay a little longer.”

A sleepy smile spread over Jaskier’s face. He cuddled close to Geralt once more and tucked himself under one of Geralt’s arms, then weaved up so his head rested on Geralt’s chest. He mumbled ‘good night’ as he drifted back to sleep, but he had no idea of the words made any sense. 

The first thing he noticed was the warmth. He was curled up against something warm and solid, something that smelled of sweat and soap. He let out a happy sigh. The sound of his own sigh brought the awareness of sound back to him, and he realized the solid warmth beside him came with a heartbeat. It was a familiar heartbeat, half the pace of Jaskier’s own, and for several seconds it soothed him. Then he put two and two together, and he bolted upright with a panicked squawk. He had half a second of kneeling upright on the bed before his momentum took him backwards, sending him sprawling on his ass and staring at Geralt in shock. Geralt, who was lying bare-chested on the bed, looking at Jaskier as if he was the one acting strange. Jaskier narrowed his eyes.

“That werewolf didn’t hit you in the head, did it?”

Geralt’s expression shut off. He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his back to Jaskier.

“You’re the one that insisted we stay like that.”

“You let me,” Jaskier said accusingly, as if that were much worse than allowing it. “You never let me do things.”

Geralt had no answer to that. After a pause he stood, walking over to the wardrobe and dressing without a word. Jaskier bit his lip. Somehow, his panic had offended Geralt more than the cuddling itself. If he had known his reaction would startle Geralt, he would have proceeded much more sedately. Half his panic had been for Geralt’s sake, as he had not wanted to risk Geralt closing off and spending the day grumpy and distant all because of a little cuddling. His plan, if it could be called that, had backfired spectacularly. 

They prepared for the day in silence. It was only when breakfast was delivered that Jaskier decided to risk reminding Geralt about the possibility of a trip into the city. To his surprise, Geralt agreed. And so the two of them ventured out, Geralt in his boring leather, Jaskier in a new outfit in a dashing shade of pink. The warmth of Geralt’s hand in his own ought to have kept Jaskier’s thoughts occupied, but he had always been easily distracted. He flitted this way and that, dragging Geralt behind him wherever he went. And while he did not go without complaining or rolling his eyes, Geralt went, every time, and did not put up even a token resistance. He let Jaskier drag him down to the lake, then up to the temple and to the market. 

An out-of-tune lute wailed in the marketplace. After a few chords, Jaskier realized it was a dreadful rendition of ‘Toss A Coin’. He groaned theatrically. People began to give him a wide berth, and it was not hard to guess why. Geralt looked almost murderous. Every time a string twanged obnoxiously a muscle twitched below his left eye. Jaskier had seen him on the brink of death more times than he could count, but he had borne those instances with better grace than this. Jaskier looked around for the musician responsible. Instead of an actual musician, he saw a child, sitting in the dirt and playing a beaten up old lute. He cursed.

“We can’t start a fight, look,” he muttered to Geralt. Geralt was suspiciously silent. Jaskier decided to try a new method, dragging him over to a nearby stall and asking his opinion on various trinkets. Before he knew what was happening, he found himself drawn into a debate with the store holder about whether or not a certain piece of jewellery would match a certain outfit. 

“Geralt, what do you think?” he asked, turning to face him. He stared, not at Geralt, but at the space he formerly occupied. He looked back to the shopkeeper, baffled. The shopkeeper shrugged. As Jaskier scanned the market place, he noticed the horrible out of tune lute had stopped. A moment later, he heard a three individual notes ring out, each inching closer and closer to the correct tuning. He looked to the child. 

Sure enough, there was Geralt, crouched down in front of the child with a gentle smile on his face. The little girl plucked a string. Geralt murmured something and tapped one of the wooden pegs. She twisted the peg a little and tried again. The note rang out true, and she looked to Geralt for approval. Geralt nodded, then tapped the peg for the next string. One by one they worked through the strings, Geralt either nodding or shaking his head at each attempt. Jaskier stood by the stall, stunned. Despite his efforts to engage Geralt’s curiosity, he had never managed to teach Geralt a single thing about the lute. And yet here he was, bringing an instrument into tune without any reference. He seemed to have infinite patience for the little girl, not once growling or snapping or even wincing when she made a mistake. 

Once the instrument was in tune, the little girl played a chord. Geralt nodded his approval and dumped a small pile of gold into the hat she had set out for coins. As Jaskier got closer, he heard her protest.

“You’re promoting my business,” Geralt told her seriously. “It only seems fair you get a cut.”

“I never get a cut,” Jaskier said. He walked with a swagger, hoping to attract Geralt’s eyes, but he just snorted and shook his head.

“That’s because I already pay for everything, Jaskier.”

“Psh. Like that matters. Some husband you are,” Jaskier said. He leaned against Geralt’s shoulder and smiled down at the little girl. “Who taught you to play, sweetheart?”

“Mama’s teaching me, but she’s too sick to play today,” the little girl said. Jaskier and Geralt exchanged a look. Geralt asked a few questions about her mother’s symptoms. The answers made Jaskier’s heart sink. From what the little girl said, her mother was gravely ill and too poor to afford a doctor. Geralt hummed. He looked at Jaskier, then back to the girl and said,

“Would you mind keeping my husband company while I shop for herbs? He gets bored when I do that, but I bet he would love to teach you some more.”

“Really?” the girl asked, eyes wide, and there was nothing Jaskier could say to escape his fate. He sat on the ground and spent the next three hours teaching the little girl to play. He did not have Geralt’s patience, but he was far more entertaining. The girl laughed at his jokes and cringed at his criticism, even when he kept it gentle. Meanwhile, Geralt stomped around the marketplace buying herbs before coming to join them. He sat beside Jaskier with a mortar and pestle and ground the herbs, then mixed them with some kind of alcohol. Once he had filtered the mixture into a series of four little glass bottles, he handed them to the girl.

“Give these to your mother. Have her drink one per day. It should help to bring the fever down.”

“You don’t normally go out distributing potions and poultices to people,” Jaskier observed, after the little girl had dashed off with her lute and Geralt’s potions. More than once, he’d heard Geralt flat out refuse to help people in a similar position, instead directing them to the local herbalist. Instead of answering, Geralt stood, and Jaskier sighed. He should have known better than to think Geralt would acknowledge his own good deed. He grasped Geralt’s hand as he pulled himself up. He dusted himself off as best he could, but it would take the poor servants at the palace hours to clean his clothes. He looked over at Geralt and huffed. 

“This is your fault. I’m filthy.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re spoiled. If you think this is filthy, you’re not going to want to leave come spring.”

“Nonsense. I wouldn’t trade tramping through those horrid swamps with you for the finest palace in the world. At least not for more than a month of two,” Jaskier declared. “But I really would like to get back to our palace, if you don’t mind. I need a bath.”

“You smell fine,” Geralt grumbled, but he fell into step beside Jaskier. 

“Fine? Hmph. I’ll have you know the cologne I use makes me smell more than fine. It’s made by the finest perfumery in Novigrad.”

Geralt crinkled his nose. “It’s disgusting. And you forgot to put it on this morning.”

“No, I didn’t,” Jaskier protested, and sniffed his wrist. To his surprise, Geralt was right. He let out a little huff of irritation. “You could have reminded me.”

“And put up with that reek all day?” 

“It’s not my fault you don’t like how I smell. We can’t all smell of lavender and raspberries or whatever your fucking sorceress smells like.”

“Lilac and gooseberries,” Geralt said automatically, then winced. “Fuck. Jaskier, that’s not the point. You smell fine. Your cologne smells like endrega mating pheromones. It’s vile.”

Jaskier drew himself up to his full height, ready to argue, but a glance at Geralt stopped him. He was grumpy, yes, with his arms crossed over his chest and his nose scrunched up in disgust, but that only supported the idea that he may be telling the truth. Jaskier considered his options. After a moment, he grabbed Geralt’s hand and turned back to the market.

“In that case, we’ll find something new.”

“Didn’t you want a bath?” Geralt asked, sounding exhausted, but Jaskier ignored him. Instead, he rambled at length about the different kinds of perfume, and why he’d picked this particular scent, and how stupid Geralt was for not saying anything earlier. He barely paused for breath, and certainly did not pause for response. The topic may be new, but this routine was as old as their relationship. Jaskier talked and Geralt ignored him. 

He glanced sideways at Geralt and stumbled over his own feet. Geralt was not ignoring him. He was listening, showing every sign of being genuinely interested in what Jaskier had to say. When Jaskier stumbled, his hand shot out and caught him. Flushing, Jaskier straightened. The movement had brought Geralt closer to him. This close, their shoulders bumped together, and he could feel the heat radiating from Geralt against his shoulder. Beside him, Geralt hummed to himself. He dropped Jaskier’s hand and instead passed his hand behind Jaskier’s back to grasp at his hip. 

“You were saying?”

Jaskier’s mind went blank. He could not say if it was the heat of Geralt’s arm against his back, the small smile on his face, or the soft encouragement, but he could not remember a single thing he had been saying before. He opened and closed his mouth several times before Geralt took pity on him.

“I think you were taking me to a perfumery?”

“Right,” Jaskier croaked out. That had been the plan. He was going to find a perfume he liked that Geralt could tolerate, even if it took them all day. 

With a little help from the locals, Jaskier steered them into a perfumery and greeted the woman behind the desk with a bright smile and a determined glint in his eyes.

“My lady, I am in desperate need of aid. My oaf of a husband has a sensitive nose, and apparently my usual cologne gives him headaches. Can you help us?”

The woman glanced at Geralt nervously. Looking at him, Jaskier could understand why she might be afraid. He was not even attempting to smile. If Jaskier didn’t know better, he would have doubted he even could. There was an unhappy hunch to his shoulders, and he kept glancing towards the door. To a stranger, who saw only that and his armor and his weapons, it could easily look as if he were on the verge of violence. Jaskier knew better. If Geralt was going to do anything drastic, it was run. 

At Jaskier’s urging, the woman brought out a set of nearly twenty different scented oils and set them out on the bench. Before she even removed the stoppers, Geralt tapped on three separate bottles.

“Not these.”

The woman’s eyebrows rose, but she was smart enough not to argue. Jaskier watched mournfully as the bottle of sandalwood oil was whipped away, along with the frankincense and lavender. 

“I like sandalwood.”

“I don’t,” Geralt said, and that was that.

Despite the efficient start, it took a little over an hour to narrow the perfumes down to a handful of options. They then started the work of blending scents together, until there were three perfumes Geralt found tolerable that Jaskier enjoyed. He bought a small vial of each and promised to return to the shop once he had chosen a favourite. He suspected it would be the patchouli and geranium blend, but Geralt had insisted that he wouldn’t know if the mix was truly palatable until he had smelled it on Jaskier’s skin for a few days. Jaskier’s eyebrows rose at that.

“Do you make a habit of sniffing me?”

“We share a bed,” Geralt grunted. It was a fair point, and very hard to argue with.

“Right. Well. Some day you really need to tell me exactly how sensitive your nose is.”

“Not gonna happen,” Geralt said. 

“But Geralt! I’m curious. Don’t you want to indulge your husband?”

“I’ve indulged you enough.”

Jaskier gasped, putting one hand over his chest as if mortally offended. “Geralt!”

Unaffected, Geralt poked him in the ribs. Jaskier attempted to retaliate, only to find his wrist caught in a gentle but unbreakable grasp. He sighed theatrically and slumped his weight against Geralt.

“You are a brute, you know that? You could let me win sometimes.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. Conceding the point, Jaskier let himself be escorted back to the palace.


	8. kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: drinking, gambling, and some spicy thoughts (but nothing further than kissing)
> 
> i have had a long day so please validate me

When they returned to their quarters, they were surprised to find an assembly of off-duty guards, including Commander Honeycutt, standing in the hallway, bickering. When Jaskier and Geralt approached, they stared at each other.

“We thought you’d still be in bed,” one said uncertainly, while another proclaimed loudly that they’d told the others Geralt was on his feet, and it was their fault if they hadn’t listened. That started another argument which only came to an end when Geralt made to push past them to get into the room.

“We brought alcohol.”

“And cards.”

“And food!”

“We didn’t want you to be bored.”

“With Jaskier around, I don’t have the luxury of boredom,” Geralt grumbled, but he invited them in nevertheless. He took a seat in the sitting area, while Jaskier performed the work of greeting their guests and making them comfortable. They had brought enough alcohol to get a whole platoon drunk, which was promising. Once they were settled and he had put his purchases away, he fetched his lute.

The soldiers stayed for the next several hours. As time crept past, every one of them slipped from tipsy to outrageously drunk. Geralt did the same, although slower than the others. Whether that was because of his alcohol tolerance or a gambling strategy, Jaskier would never know. He suspected it was a combination, because Geralt, like many men, loved gambling. He played round after round of Gwent. Jaskier could hardly imagine a more boring fate, but Geralt was plainly thrilled by the opportunity to rob all his friends of their best cards. Jaskier provided the soundtrack, taking requests as they were shouted out. When tired, he would sit for a few moments and drink, before bouncing up on his feet and launching into a new drinking song. He danced as he sang, prancing up and down the length of their living area. 

When he started a particularly filthy little ditty, he was interrupted by Geralt’s arm wrapping around his waist. He then pulled, sending Jaskier sprawling into his lap. His lute cluttered to the ground, and Jaskier spluttered indignantly. 

“You brute! I could’ve been hurt! Worse, you could’ve damaged my lute!”

“You know I hate that song,” Geralt grumbled. He put down a card on the table, then lifted Jaskier up and shifted him on his knees. When he settled, Jaskier found himself seated comfortably on Geralt’s lap. The arm reappeared around his waist, and Geralt rested his chin on Jaskier’s shoulder. He glanced sideways. Geralt blinked up at him with soft, drunken affection, all but purring in content. Jaskier huffed out a soft laugh and reached up to touch his cheek.

“Exactly how much have you had to drink, Geralt?”

The soldiers around the room called out to them, teasing them. More than a few claimed it was disgusting (on the grounds that it was like watching a family member). Most of them were encouraging, and a few suggested loudly they ought to retreat to the bedroom. 

“Gotta win first,” Geralt said in response to that, and played another card. He turned his face back to Jaskier and inhaled deeply. Softly, low enough that only Jaskier could hear, he murmured, “You smell good.”

He was close enough that his lips brushed against Jaskier’s neck as he spoke. Jaskier shivered. His neck had always been unfairly sensitive, and he could not deny the warmth that pooled in his gut at the contact. He worked an arm between himself and Geralt’s chest and pushed him away. 

“Geralt, we’ve got company, you’re drunk, and you’re injured.”

“Not injured.”

“Geralt, we’ve got company and you’re drunk.”

“You’re not drunk,” Geralt said. It sounded like an accusation, and Jaskier chuckled.

“No. One of us has to be sensible, and apparently that’s my job tonight.”

“Hm. My job,” Geralt disagreed. “You’re not sensible.”

Jaskier huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement caught Geralt’s attention, and he tugged Jaskier back deeper into his lap and returned his chin to Jaskier’s shoulder with a happy hum.

“Handsome. Loyal. Not sensible.”

“Oh, you _are_ drunk,” Jaskier said, delighted. Perhaps it was morally wrong to take pleasure in things Geralt said while drunk, but he had never pretended to be a good man. He turned his face so he could hide his smile against Geralt’s head. “You’re sweet when you’re drunk.”

“Hmph. Witchers aren’t sweet.”

“Of course not. My mistake,” Jaskier chuckled. “Witchers are big and scary and not at all adorable.”

Geralt nodded, looking pleased. He then looked back to the card game, hummed again, and put down another card. Jaskier had no idea what the card meant, but the man across the table cursed.

“How the hell are you that drunk and still winning?”

“He does that,” Jaskier said. “Especially with Gwent. There’s a reason I won’t play with him.”

“’Cause you’re a coward and you hate losing.”

“Hush, go back to being all quiet and affectionate,” Jaskier said, and Geralt hummed and kissed his cheek. Jaskier felt his face flush at the gesture. Even though he had asked for as much, he hadn’t expected Geralt to indulge him.

One by one, the soldiers trickled out of the room and made their way to their own quarters. The last few were chased out by Honeycutt after being reminded they would not be exempt from their morning training. The door shut and locked behind them, leaving Geralt and Jaskier in sudden silence. Geralt did not release him. Instead, he let out another soft hum and nuzzled Jaskier’s neck.

“Did I mention you smell good?” he slurred.

“Geralt, we’re alone now,” Jaskier said gently. Instead of pulling away like Jaskier expected, Geralt let out a pleased, rumbling sound and pulled him deeper into his lap. Not expecting the movement, Jaskier ended up sprawled against Geralt’s chest. He let out an indignant squawk, straightening up immediately. He twisted until he faced Geralt and frowned at him.

“What has gotten into you?”

Geralt blinked up at him in open confusion. The sight caused Jaskier’s heart to swell with affection, but he set the feeling firmly aside for later. Geralt’s behaviour was too strange to ignore. He had barely complained at all about the masquerade, and had shown up and behaved appropriately without any coaxing. Both in public and private, he accepted more physical affection than he ever had before. And now, to top it all off, he was initiating not just affection, but outright cuddling. To say Jaskier had questions was an understatement. 

“You dressed nicely, for the masquerade. You _danced_. And now you’re cuddly.”

“Wanna be a good husband.”

His expression was open and earnest with a sweet, somewhat dopey smile on his face. No matter how much Jaskier stared, he could not see any trace of mockery or dishonestly in his expression. After a few seconds, he caved and put a hand on Geralt’s face. 

“Geralt, you’re very sweet and very, very drunk. And I want you to know that as grateful as I am for you pretending to be my husband, I am going to give you so much shit for this in the morning.”

Despite the warm affection in Jaskier’s voice, Geralt’s expression fell. He turned away from Jaskier and released him, finally giving him space to stand up. He did so, but reluctantly. The frown on Geralt’s face made it plain Jaskier had done something wrong, but he could not begin to fathom what. He could only stare in confusion as Geralt swayed to his feet and staggered through to the bedroom. By the time Jaskier followed him through, he had fallen fast asleep. With a sigh, Jaskier readied himself for bed. As he did, he began to put a plan together to find out what was wrong with Geralt once and for all. Teasing him would have to wait.

Not yet tired enough to sleep, Jaskier settled in the windowsill seat and examined Geralt’s sleeping form. He had stripped down to his underthings to sleep and lay as still as death. Unable to help himself, Jaskier took the opportunity to admire his exposed upper body. It was nothing he had not seen before, but he rarely allowed himself to look with crooked intentions as he did now. As he did, he felt a familiar heat run through him. Simply looking was enough to bring a flush to his cheeks. His eyes lingered not only on the bare skin, but the way Geralt’s silver hair pooled on the pillow, and the point where the blankets pooled around his hips. If only he was allowed to touch! He could not even blow off steam with a pretty stranger, as he would normally do in this kind of situation. Both he and Geralt were stuck. All he could do was wait out winter and try and ignore the growing ache in his chest.

Over the next few days, life in the palace began to return to normal. Geralt returned to training, Jaskier to his teaching and performances. The royal children were twice as excitable as usual. In their eyes, Geralt was a hero, and Jaskier was a near limitless source of information and stories about their hero. Their first class after the werewolf attack was a disaster. He could not persuade the children to pay attention at all, both of them too excited to settle down. When he stepped out for a break, he let out an exhausted sigh. He began to walk back to his rooms, but before he left the royal apartments, he was surprised to hear Geralt’s voice.

“Your lies put everyone at court in danger. Why should I go along with this? You’re not even paying me. Witchers don’t work for free.”

“Very well. You’ll be paid. We will let it be known why you are here.”

There was a pause as Jaskier tried and failed to process the conversation. The second voice belonged to the queen herself. Surely, he thought to himself, Geralt wasn't arguing with the queen. But when Geralt spoke again, his voice was low and dangerous and full of threat.

“That’s a low blow.”

“You are the one attempting to extort me, witcher. Will you take your payment in coin, or silence?”

There was a long pause. When Geralt spoke, his voice was stern.

“Jaskier can’t know.”

The words triggered a small twinge of guilt in Jaskier for eavesdropping, and an overwhelming surge of curiosity. What kind of secret could Geralt possibly be keeping?

“When you first arrived in court, I had my doubts, but you truly are besotted, aren’t you?”

“He is my husband,” Geralt said. Even though Jaskier could not see him, he knew the words were said through gritted teeth. He winced and fled before he could hear any more. As much as he usually enjoyed listening to Geralt sing his praises, he could not bear to hear another word in that tone. He scurried down the hall. He flashed a smile to Mother Nadia as he took over the children again, though the expression felt rigid and cold on his face. Innocent or not, he still hadn’t forgiven her for her treatment of Geralt. 

“Master Jaskier! Master Jaskier! Is your husband very badly injured?” one princess wanted to know. Jaskier took a seat and pulled out his lute.

“Not at all. It takes more than a werewolf to keep a witcher down.”

“Is it strange, living with a witcher?” the younger girl wanted to know. “I saw him talking to Mama. He has eyes like a cat!”

“He does,” Jaskier nodded solemnly. “I think they’re very pretty.”

Before they could ask any more questions, he sang them a quick, silly little song about witcher’s eyes and the things they could see. When he was done, he quizzed them on the musical structure of the song, which they delighted in. His next song was more serious, but still starred Geralt in one of his hunts. He moved through song after song, slowly taking them from the songs they wanted to hear to the classics. After each song, he quizzed them. Their enthusiasm waned as they caught on to his game, but they continued to play along. Jaskier was one of their favourite tutors, and with good reason. Very few teachers could make their material as engaging as he could.

He went straight from teaching to his evening performance. He expected Geralt to be asleep when he returned, but to his surprise, the bed was empty and a dull light glowed from the bathroom. Curious, he invited himself in. There candles around the room cast a dim light, just bright enough for Jaskier to make out Geralt’s silhouette. His head rested backwards against the edge of the tub. He looked so peaceful that for a moment Jaskier wondered if he had fallen asleep. His answer came when Geralt spoke, his voice low and relaxed.

“I know you’re there, Jaskier.”

“You’re normally in bed by now.”

“It was a long day,” Geralt said. Instead of feeling sympathy for Geralt, Jaskier found himself delighted in the news. It didn’t seem like that long ago that Geralt would have ignored his need for comfort after a difficult day, and yet here he was, indulging. Baths, it seemed, were his weakness. 

“Want to talk about it?” Jaskier asked, although he knew the answer would be ‘no’. Geralt hummed. Yellow eyes gleamed in the darkness, indicating he had opened his eyes and was watching Jaskier. When the silence continued for longer than Jaskier was comfortable with, he began to ramble about his own day. At first, he had no idea if Geralt was listening, but after a few moments, his eyes shut. Jaskier was left with only a silhouette to address. He kept going, and Geralt let out a sigh that sounded almost like contentment.

Eventually, he heard water splashing. The Geralt-shaped blob of shadow stood and groped for a towel. Jaskier left him to dress and prepared for bed himself. By the time Geralt emerged, he had stripped down to the loose trousers he preferred for sleeping and sprawled out in the middle of the bed. Geralt’s eyes flicked over his body. The movement was tiny and lasted only a fraction of a second, but it was enough to make Jaskier grin. Maybe winter didn’t have to be as lonely as he had anticipated. He stretched, enjoying the movement so much he closed his eyes and let out a small grunt as he worked a particularly tight muscle. 

“Move, Jaskier.”

Jaskier cracked open an eye. Geralt stood by the bed. Instead of watching him with the barely-contained lust he had hoped for, he scowled at Jaskier, and his arms were crossed over his chest. How he managed to go from interested to irritated so quickly was beyond Jaskier, but he took the hint and scooted over. He waited until Geralt had sat down, then said,

“You forgot to put out the candles.”

With a flick of his fingers, Geralt put the candles out, leaving them in complete darkness.

“I love your witchery magic tricks,” Jaskier said happily. “Especially when you abuse them. Like the way you use the fire thing to get us hot bath water. That is - “

“Good night, Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted. The bed dipped a little as he lay down. Despite being interrupted, Jaskier smiled and settled in. He looked at Geralt across the bed, his heart swelling with affection for all he could see nothing but a patch of shadow.

“Good night, Geralt.”

Over the coming days, Jaskier thought about how Geralt had looked at him on the bed. The look on Geralt’s face occupied his mind most of the time. Had it been a trick of the light? Had Geralt simply been tired, and interested in any warm body that happened to be around? Or was it somehow connected to Geralt’s strange behaviour lately? He had been behaving very oddly. Jaskier did not dare try to guess what prompted it, but after a few days, he came up with a plan. What he needed was information. If he varied his behaviour and catalogued Geralt’s responses carefully enough, he may be able to divine what Geralt was thinking. If he was very clever, he may figure it out before Geralt did himself. It would not be the first time he had understood Geralt’s feelings before Geralt himself. 

Jaskier put his plan into action immediately. He began to flirt with Geralt, and paid attention to his reactions. Or, to be more precise, he began to deliberately flirt with Geralt, because once he turned his mind to it, he found it came naturally. He flirted with every little touch to his elbow and every smile and wink. He flirted with innuendos and when fishing for compliments. He even managed to flirt when insulting Geralt, something he hadn’t thought he was even capable of. But now that he stopped and examined his behaviour, the conclusions were inescapable. With the amount of time he spent flirting with Geralt, it was a wonder Geralt hadn’t already fallen for him. Anyone else, Jaskier was sure, would be out of their mind with desperation (or, when he considered his track record in full, would have laughed themselves silly) by now. But Geralt remained stubbornly - well, Geralt. He ignored the flirtatious touches and rolled his eyes when Jaskier winked. The innuendos won him nothing more than a quiet snort of laughter and an equally terrible line right back. He was utterly immune to the flirting that came with day-to-day life with Jaskier. Jaskier could only hope he was not immune to more deliberate flirting. 

He began by manufacturing more time with Geralt. Instead of sleeping in each morning, he rose only an hour after the sun and dragged himself down to the salle. The first morning he appeared, Commander Honeycutt looked at him up and down. He froze. After several seconds, she sighed and gestured to a low wooden fence.

“You can stay. But if you cross the fence, you’ll be part of the next drill.”

“No, thank you,” Jaskier said with a shudder. He leaned against the fence, but did not put so much as a toe over the line. Honeycutt watched him, but once it became clear he knew his place, she returned her attention to training.

“Geralt! I don’t care how fast you are, if you keep slacking on that half-pirouette, someone is going to hit you in the crotch. Is that the kind of thing you want your husband to see?”

Geralt’s only acknowledgement was a tiny nod. Three minutes later, someone tried to do exactly what Honeycutt had said. Geralt to knocked their leg away with his shin. Before his attacker could recover, Geralt lashed out and landed a kick with the flat of his foot against his attacker’s knee. Jaskier winced. He’d seen that move applied in practice, and ordinarily Geralt’s foot smashed straight through the joint and broke it. But the price he paid was a smack on the arm from another opponent, and he did not look pleased. The next time he did a half-pirouette, there was no such opening. 

There was something pleasant, Jaskier decided, about watching Geralt train. His movements were precise, graceful for all their aggression and always tightly controlled. The ease Jaskier had looked for in dancing came naturally to him here. It was beautiful to watch. It was all the more beautiful for the subtle signs Geralt was enjoying himself. When the threat of death or dismemberment was removed, fighting could be fun in ways that Jaskier did not even begin to comprehend. When he tried, he came to the conclusion that a good training match was similar to the joy he felt playing and composing with a fellow artist. It was a thrill people without a taste for music would never understand.

When training finished for the day, Geralt walked over to Jaskier with a smile on his face. Despite the cold winter air, sweat caused his shirt to stick to his skin. Jaskier could smell him from three metres away. None of this stopped Geralt from greeting Jaskier with a hug so affectionate that Jaskier almost forgot how to breathe. The heat radiating from Geralt took the chill off the morning air, and the solid strength of his arms around him soothed something in Jaskier he did not understand. Still, he could not stop the disgusted noise he made.

“Ugh! Geralt, you stink!”

Looking skeptical, Geralt pulled back and then sniffed his own armpit. He grimaced. “Fuck.”

“Indeed,” Jaskier said, and whacked him on the arm. “And now we both reek. Would it kill you to show a little decorum?”

Geralt snorted. “We’ve both been covered in worse than sweat.”

He set off in the direction of their rooms, and Jaskier followed. They bickered the entire time. Geralt maintained that there were worse things in life than a little sweat, especially when one had access to baths; Jaskier insisted that Geralt was a complete barbarian for smelling the way he did. But after a few jokes, Geralt’s mood soured. When he stopped responding to Jaskier’s jokes with jests in kind, Jaskier took it upon himself to sling an arm around Geralt’s shoulders as they walked. 

“Ah, well, a little sweat never hurt anyone,” he said. He watched Geralt closely, taking note how his shoulders settled back into a more relaxed position, and the small furrow in his brow eased. 

He returned the next morning, and the morning after that. Every morning, Geralt greeted him the same way. Once he resigned himself to making bathing a daily ritual, Jaskier began to look forward to the hugs. When he remembered Geralt could not push him away in public, his delight doubled. He began wrapping his arms around Geralt’s neck and pressing the whole length of his body against Geralt’s. When Geralt allowed that without even the tiniest sign of unhappiness, he escalated. He began by playing with Geralt’s hair, brushing it over his shoulder and gently scolding him for getting it so dirty. When that won him nothing more than a raised eyebrow, he grinned and kissed Geralt’s cheek. Every muscle in Geralt’s body tensed. When Jaskier pulled back, Geralt’s eyes were wide in poorly disguised shock. That, then, was the line. Jaskier smiled at him and put a hand on his cheek to hold him in place for a second chaste kiss to the cheek, then grinned. 

“Are you really so surprised by your husband kissing you?” he teased. Geralt hummed, his eyes lingering for a moment on Jaskier’s lips.

“You’re trouble.”

“Always,” Jaskier agreed with a wink. 

Within a week, Geralt had adjusted to Jaskier kissing him on the cheek. It was time to try something new. He waited for a day when Geralt was in a particularly good mood. It was a challenging training session that did it. When Geralt finished, he was not just damp with sweat, but drenched from head to toe. He finished the last drill with a savage grin on his face, and when he walked over to Jaskier, he all but swaggered with pride. When he held an arm out wide to welcome Jaskier into a hug, Jaskier took his chance. He stepped in close to Geralt, put a hand on his cheek, and kissed him. The warmth of Geralt’s mouth against his own sent a shiver of delight down his spine. Oh, but he’d missed kissing. There was something electrifying about the press of warm lips against his own. It was even nicer when Geralt returned the kiss and pulled Jaskier close against him. When Jaskier pulled away, he followed, stealing another kiss before stepping back as if burned. Jaskier grinned at him, unrepentant. Across the salle, some of the soldiers whistled and shouted encouragement to Geralt. Jaskier waved and winked at them. The entire time, Geralt stood frozen, staring at Jaskier with an unreadable expression. 

Without a word, Geralt set off in the direction of their rooms. Jaskier followed as he usually did, chatting away happily. But once out of sight of the salle, Geralt turned aside. When Jaskier made to follow him, he let out a grunt of frustration.

“Leave me alone.”

“If this is about the kiss, I can explain,” Jaskier said. Geralt stopped so abruptly Jaskier nearly ran into his back. By the time he recovered his balance, Geralt had turned, looming over him as menacingly as he could manage. Ordinarily, it made Jaskier want to tease him until he pulled his head out his ass. This time, though, he had bigger problems.

“I don’t need you to explain. I need you to leave me alone,” Geralt snarled. Jaskier lifted a hand, opened his mouth, and closed it again. How often had he heard Geralt say ‘I need’? When he was very badly wounded, yes, and occasionally when he was trying to get Jaskier to stay clear of a fight, but that was it. Outside of life-or-death situations, Jaskier wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Geralt admit to having needs. The admission was exactly the kind of thing Jaskier wanted to encourage -- if only Geralt had desired anything else. 

Before Jaskier could compose a response, Geralt stomped off in the direction of the castle gates. After a few moments of consideration, Jaskier returned to their rooms. This was nothing, he told himself. Geralt was simply cranky at spending so long in luxury instead of freezing his balls off in the mountains with his fellow witchers. All Jaskier had to do was wait for him to come slinking back. But no matter how firmly he told himself as much, he could not bring himself to believe it. Worry writhed in his gut. He bathed quickly and barely touched his lunch. He worried through his lunchtime recital. He worried while teaching the princesses a clever rhyme for Nilfgaardian verb conjugation, and while debating the finer points of poetry with his fellow artists. 

Mid-afternoon, he stopped by their quarters to change the strings on his lute. Geralt was nowhere to be found. When Jaskier investigated the office set up for him, he found the various brews and potions Geralt had created were gone. The only evidence Geralt had ever been there was the book he had been working on. Curiosity got the better of Jaskier, and he flipped through a few pages. It was a bestiary. Each entry was accompanied by a surprisingly accurate drawing of the beast described. Many had further diagrams, showing the creature opened for dissection or highlighting dangerous features. As fascinating as it was, the ink on the latest entry was dry. Geralt had plainly not worked on it for at least a day. 

There was a sinking feeling growing in Jaskier’s chest, but he could not pinpoint why until he returned to the bedroom. Geralt’s swords were gone. His leather armour was missing, too, confirming Jaskier’s worst fears. Geralt was gone. The fine clothes Jaskier had bullied him into were still in the closet, but that meant nothing. He had never expected Geralt to tolerate them for more than a season. But he had taken everything he thought essential and left without a word of goodbye. Jaskier sank into a chair. He stared at a wall, his mind blank as he tried to comprehend what had happened. It ought not to have been so jarring. He and Geralt had parted ways before, and not always on the best of terms. They sometimes went months without seeing each other. None of it had ever rendered them any less than the best of friends, and there was no reason to suspect this time was any different. But Geralt’s absence felt final. Jaskier had overstepped one too many boundaries, and there was no doubt in his mind that Geralt had zero desire to see him again.


	9. Bluffing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: more drinking, more gambling.
> 
> I've kicked the rating up to "E" to account for later chapters, but I'll endeavour to put key content warnings at the start of each chapter. 
> 
> Once again, thank you to every commenter! Seeing comments pop up is a big mood boost!

It took every ounce of skill Jaskier had to keep that evening’s performances cheerful and lighthearted. He sang and danced and smiled his way through the night, never once letting his mask slip. His pain could not interfere with his performance. It was not until he went to the kitchens for his supper that his resolve faltered and tears began to flow. He settled into a corner with wine and stew, determined to drink away the pain.

Halfway through the meal, Mother Nadia came in to the kitchen. She requested a cup of tea, then spotted Jaskier with tears streaming down his face. 

"Forget the tea," she decided. "Make it vodka, for two."

She did not ask for permission to join him, inviting herself to sit down. In any other situation, Jaskier would have told her to fuck off, but he was too caught up in his own misery to send her away. If nothing else, she provided him with vodka. She and Jaskier had both downed one drink, then she said,

“A trouble shared is a trouble eased.”

Jaskier thought of the liquorice tea she had sent Geralt. A petty part of him wanted to tell the truth and revel in her outrage, but he would not. Instead, he took another drink to buy some time. Before he could come up with an excuse, she asked,

“You had a fight with your husband, didn’t you?” 

At Jaskier’s surprise, she patted his shoulder and gave a small, rueful little chuckle. “I’ve consoled enough broken hearts to know the look. Do you want to talk about it?”

Jaskier shook his head. “I just want to drink.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do.”

They sat in silence until they finished their drink. Jaskier stood to leave, but before he could, Nadia caught him by the elbow.

“Son, don’t forget, marriage is supposed to be a blessing. It lights our path to eternal life. You deserve happiness from your marriage, Jaskier.”

Jaskier snorted derisively and pulled away. The implication that Geralt could not cause happiness was clear, and one he was diametrically opposed to. He walked from the kitchen with his head held high, even if his gait was a little unsteady. He may be heartbroken and drunk, but he was unwilling to listen to anyone insulting Geralt.

He stopped short at the door to his quarters. They were, he thought bitterly, truly his now, and not shared with Geralt. He was not sure he could face that. It did not seem like long ago that he would have delighted in having a bed that size to himself, but now it seemed like a cold and lonely way to live. He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. Even if there was no one around to see him, he would at least face his isolation with dignity. He opened the door.

The room was frigid and empty. No fire burned in the hearth, and Jaskier did not have the willpower to set one going or call for a servant. He undressed and dived into bed. Even layered under a pile of furs, he felt frozen, and he shivered violently. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He fell asleep like that, tired and miserable and lonely. 

He woke the next morning stinking of sweat with a face-full of white hair. He jolted upright, letting out a cry of surprise. Beside him, Geralt woke and leapt to his feet, grabbing his steel sword and looking around for the threat. A moment later, he lowered it with a frown.

“You’re here,” Jaskier said, trying and failing not to sound breathless. Geralt set down his sword.

“You were crying last night,” Geralt said. He sat on the edge of the bed. He reached one hand out for Jaskier, then withdrew it, setting it in his lap.

“How could you possibly know that?” Jaskier wanted to know, putting a hand on his hip. Geralt winced. 

“I can smell the tears.”

Irritation flashed through Jaskier. He couldn’t even wallow melodramatically in private without Geralt knowing, and that felt brutally unfair. He threw a pillow at Geralt in a fit of rage, only to be startled when Geralt actually let it hit. The pillow fell into his lap. He set it aside carefully and looked at Jaskier, his eyes flickering over his face as he tried to understand. Jaskier decided to help him. 

“You absolute bastard! I thought you’d left!”

The little furrow between Geralt’s eyebrows deepened. After a few moments of what looked like very taxing thought, he asked, “Why?”

“Why?” Jaskier spluttered. Indignation overwhelmed all other emotions for several seconds. After all the tears he had shed, he could not believe that Geralt was willing to pretend the incident had never occurred. Well, if that was his plan, Geralt was out of luck. As soon as Jaskier had made up his mind to force the matter, he shifted across the bed. Once he was close to Geralt, he said,

“I did this, and you ran.”

Before Geralt could respond, Jaskier closed the distance between them and kissed him. For two whole seconds, Geralt sat frozen. His hands came up to Jaskier’s arms and grasped at his biceps. At first, his hand simply rested there, but as he started to move his mouth against Jaskier’s, he pulled him a little closer. Delighted, Jaskier put a hand on Geralt’s jaw and climbed into his lap. When he pulled back, he grinned at the poleaxed expression on Geralt’s face. 

“Not going to run this time?”

Geralt blinked a couple of times. This close, Jaskier could pinpoint the exact moment realization dawned and his expression closed off, unreadable. Jaskier huffed and poked him in the chest.

“Not this again. Come on, Geralt, what’s a kiss or two between friends? Besides, we’re married.”

“You thought I left because you kissed me,” Geralt said. There was a furrow growing in his forehead, and his tone was flat. 

“You did get very grumpy and storm off,” Jaskier told him. “You told me you wanted to be alone, and you took your swords.”

“I needed some time. That doesn’t mean I left. I took my swords because there was an ekimma infestation at a construction site,” Geralt said. He lifted Jaskier up and placed him on the bed beside him. Staring somewhere above Jaskier’s left ear, he said,

“I’m not leaving you.”

Jaskier let out a little huff that was half amusement, half frustrated affection. “I know that now.”

“No,” Geralt shook his head. This time he looked Jaskier in the eye, staring him down. The eye contact was too much and left both of them uncomfortable, but Geralt did not look away. “You don’t. You thought I’d leave.”

“We part ways all the time,” Jaskier reminded him. “And you were very cross.”

“Doesn’t matter. I promised you I’d see this thing out.”

Something twisted unpleasantly in Jaskier’s gut. “I don’t want you running off after, either, not if you’re going because you’re upset.”

Geralt sighed and shook his head. “You’re worrying about nothing.”

“Losing you isn’t nothing,” Jaskier snapped, then froze. He watched as Geralt’s eyes widened. His mouth parted slightly in shock, then closed as his brow pinched together in confusion. He sniffed the air and maintained eye contact for an uncomfortably long time, but whatever he saw did not make him happy. 

“What’s gotten into you? You’re not normally this dumb.”

He flinched. He hadn’t expected Geralt to react well, but he had hoped for something better than this. Before he could shift away, Geralt’s hand curled around his bicep. He turned his head away. After a moment, though, Geralt called his name, and he turned back to face him. There was an intensity on Geralt’s face that Jaskier rarely saw, softened by a small, oddly sad little smile.

“Jaskier, you know how I feel. Do you really think my feelings for you have changed?”

He blinked. When Geralt put it like that, there was only one answer he could give. He’d seen hundreds of times how loyal Geralt was to his friends. When pressed, it was very difficult to think of anything he could do to lessen Geralt’s opinion of him. 

“No,” he said. “I don’t.”

The corners of Geralt’s mouth tipped upwards slightly, and he squeezed Jaskier’s arm.

“Then you should know you’re not about to lose me.”

For all his skill with words, there were none Jaskier could think to use in response to that. Instead, he hugged him. He slid his arms around Geralt’s middle and rested his chin on Geralt’s shoulder, holding him with all the strength he had. After a moment, Geralt’s arms reached around to hold him back, as lightly as he could manage. 

“I know you can give better hugs than that,” Jaskier told him, and he was rewarded by Geralt’s arms tightening around him. Pleased, he indulged in a moment more of contact before pulling back.

“While you’re in a mood to indulge me, I don’t suppose you’d accompany me into the market? 

“Need to pick up my pay for the ekimma anyway,” Geralt said. It was far from enthusiastic agreement, but Jaskier would take what he could get. He bounced to his feet and began to prepare for the day. 

Thanks to their marriage, he had an excuse to hold Geralt’s hand on the way into the city. Even after the weeks they had already committed to the act, Jaskier still delighted in the casual contact. He would take as much advantage as Geralt allowed. Of all the physical affection newly allowed, holding hands was one of Jaskier's favourites. Hanging onto one hand, Jaskier dragged him around the market. They scoffed down eggs and sausages for breakfast from a street vendor and washed it down with mugs of hot, slightly spicy tea. Jaskier bounced from shop to shop, admiring different fabrics and flowers and jewellery all the same. 

When he stared too long at a bouquet of winter jasmine and hellebore, Geralt slipped away without a word. Jaskier sighed and moved on. Geralt returned moments later with the flowers in hand and shoved them at Jaskier with a wordless grunt. Jaskier stared at the flowers now in his hands, baffled but touched. He inhaled deeply and smiled. After a moment, he realized what Geralt was trying to say.

“Apology accepted,” he said. To his amusement, Geralt’s iron will faltered in the light of honest communication, and he turned on his heel to the stall behind him. He examined the bolts of cloth the merchant had on offer as if they were the most fascinating thing in the world. Laughing, Jaskier threaded their hands back together and tugged him away, ignoring how stiff and uncomfortable Geralt seemed beside him . At the next stall, he asked Geralt’s opinion on coloured ink, and different fabrics at the next. It took four new stalls before Geralt seemed to relax. Bit by bit, they returned to their normal routine, and Jaskier nearly breathed a sigh of relief. To avoid any further incidents, he returned them home and busied himself dealing with the flowers. He set them in a vase near the window so that he could see them when he was composing or rehearsing. It may have been his imagination, but he could have sworn Geralt smiled when he saw where he put them.

Even weeks after the attack, Geralt still dealt with the fallout of the werewolf attack. It was not uncommon for him to lock himself in his office with Commander Honeycutt for hours at a time. The worst were the nights when they worked late into the night, leaving Jaskier to stumble to bed cold and alone. There was, he thought, something awful about going to bed while Geralt and the commander worked by candlelight. It made something in Jaskier restless, leaving him tossing and turning despite his exhaustion. 

Jaskier told himself he was not jealous. More to the point, there was nothing to be jealous of. What did Jaskier care if Geralt greeted her with a slap on the shoulder and a welcoming smile? If Geralt wanted to take his meals with her and leave Jaskier alone at night, that was his business. Jaskier had his own life to keep him busy. He had children to teach and audiences to enthral. He had friends aplenty amongst his fellow musicians and artists, and he could talk his way into the company of anyone he pleased. If Geralt would not accompany him to formal dances or late-night parties, then logic dictated he should find other company. He had never hesitated to do so in the past. But now, no matter how witty or pretty his company, he found his mind drifting back to Geralt. Worse, no one seemed interested in him. Some of them were scared, convinced Geralt would harm them for flirting with his husband; others outright laughed at his half-hearted attempts at flirting. Jaskier was not sure which was worse. Both soured his mood, and he found himself growing crankier by the day. 

After two weeks straight of Geralt ignoring him, Jaskier was at his wits end. He caught himself making pointed but subtle snubs directed at Honeycutt. It was never anything Geralt would notice, but it was the kind of savage noble behaviour that would make his mother proud. With any luck, Honeycutt would leave. In his darkest fantasies, he dared to wish that she would respond with insults of her own, too openly for Geralt to ignore. In those fantasies, Geralt was always quick to take offense on Jaskier's behalf. 

After four days spent insulting Honeycutt, he returned to his quarters to find Geralt’s office empty. Geralt himself sat in the sitting area, nursing a large mug of beer. Jaskier’s expression lit up when he saw him sitting alone.

“Finally,” Jaskier said, bouncing over and taking a seat beside him. He stole a sip of Geralt’s ale and leaned back with a satisfied sigh, flinging his feet up into Geralt's lap. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”

Geralt’s eyebrows shot up, and he took a long sip of his ale. “Damn, Honeycutt was right.”

Dread settled into the pit of Jaskier’s stomach. “About what?”

“You’re jealous,” Geralt said. He sounded astonished, and for a moment Jaskier wondered if he could take that surprise and twist it into disbelief. But the disbelief was almost certainly based on Geralt’s own self-esteem, so he discarded the idea. He’d stick with straight denial.

“I’m not. She’s just always here. And people will talk!”

“We’re working together. And we’re friends.”

“I’m your friend,” Jaskier insisted. The words sounded whining and childish even to his own ears, but Geralt smiled and put a hand on his ankle.

“The best of friends. But last time I checked, most people have more than one friend.”

Jaskier winced. “Yes, well, I haven’t exactly seen a lot of you lately...”

Geralt hummed. He took another long sip of his ale and leaned back in his seat, eyeing Jaskier thoughtfully. “Can’t say I understand, but I’m here now.”

Something about the words made Jaskier’s heart pound in his chest. His mouth went dry. His mind scrambled for something to say, something clever and suave and witty to make Geralt glad he was here. His eyes ran over Geralt’s body and got stuck around his collar. Pale skin peeked out, and when Jaskier stared, he could see the slender curve of Geralt’s collarbone. There was only one small scar visible there. As innocuous as it looked, it likely had a dreadful story behind it. Geralt had once told him he would take a thousand wounds on his arms before risking a cut to the neck. The only scars on the neck itself were bite marks from particularly pesky vampires. 

“After all the fuss you made, you’re just gonna stare at me?”

“The fuss I made?” Jaskier asked, putting one hand over his chest as though offended. “You’re the one that brought it up, Geralt.”

“Because you’ve been rude, apparently. Luckily Honeycutt thinks it’s funny, or it could be awkward.”

Jaskier hadn’t considered that. He tried and failed to suppress a wince. “I shouldn’t have interfered. I want you to have friends.”

“I do. I just prefer it when my friends get along,” Geralt said. He got to his feet and clapped Jaskier on the arm. “Come on. Let’s go for a walk.”

With no particular destination in mind, they visited the palace gardens. As they walked, Jaskier shivered from the cold. Not having thought ahead, he had not bothered to bring his winter cloak. He lasted two whole minutes before he realized there was an elegant solution. He pressed as close to Geralt as possible, ducking under one arm and wrapping his own arm around Geralt’s waist. When Geralt raised an eyebrow at him, he whined,

“I’m cold.”

“We could go inside.”

“No,” Jaskier said. Seconds ago, he would have loved the suggestion, but now he wanted nothing more than to stay in the freezing cold and leech the heat from Geralt’s body. Geralt let out a small huff of amusement. He adjusted the position of the arm around Jaskier’s shoulder, but pleasingly, he did not remove it. Even if it was only for show, Jaskier would relish the chance to cuddle close to him. 

With a little bit of encouragement from Jaskier, Geralt spoke at length about the plants there, whether they were medicinal or culinary or purely there for the aesthetic. His knowledge of plants was encyclopedic. Jaskier’s was not, although he could now recognize most plants Geralt used in his potions, even if he could not name them. It was a vast improvement from when they had met. He could just about distinguish roses from other flowers, but even that he had gotten wrong once or twice, much to Geralt’s amusement. Rather than let Geralt mock him, he started pointing to random plants and demanding to know what they were called. Every time, Geralt obliged him. He not only told Jaskier the name, but anything else he knew about the plant. His delight was a quiet thing, but to Jaskier, the tiny smile on Geralt’s face was as bright as the sun.

When they returned to their quarters, Jaskier picked up his lute and began to practice. He expected Geralt to lock himself in his office, but instead he disappeared only long enough to retrieve a small stack of books. He settled on the bed and began to read. Fascinated, Jaskier watched him as he played. Someone had placed cheap paper sleeves around the spines, hiding the titles. For a moment, Jaskier amused himself with the idea that Geralt was reading cheap smut, but the idea was too ludicrous to hold his attention for long. In any case, Geralt’s expression was far too stern for that. He frowned at some pages and grunted in disgust at others. Very, very rarely, his expression softened, and he scribbled something down in his own notebook. If Jaskier put aside fancy, he was forced to conclude the texts were incorrect bestiaries or herbalist guides. 

Red and pink light filtered in through the window as the sun began to set. Jaskier summoned supper and wine, and he and Geralt at opposite one another. The meal disappeared quickly, as did the wine, prompting Jaskier to send for more of both. By the time they had finished eating, Jaskier was drunk and Geralt was tipsy enough to laugh at his jokes. It was a sound Jaskier relished. It was rare to get anything more than a snicker or a chuckle out of Geralt, and when he did, it was a rough, awkward sound, as if each time he had to re-learn how to do it. The sound warmed Jaskier from the inside out. Unwilling to let the night end when Geralt was in such a good mood, Jaskier proposed a round of Gwent. Geralt’s pupils expanded at the suggestion. He caught himself a second later, but not before Jaskier noticed. He leaned back with a grin.

“I’ll take that as a yes then.”

“Sorry,” Geralt said. He looked away and down, prompting Jaskier to cluck his tongue.

“Don’t be an idiot. You know I like your eyes.”

“Like?” Geralt echoed, looking back at Jaskier with raised eyebrows. “I know they don’t bother you. That’s enough.”

“Well, you’ve got more than that,” Jaskier said. He got to his feet and walked past Geralt in search of his gwent deck. He squeezed his shoulder as he passed, letting his hand linger on Geralt’s shoulder and trace over his back as he moved away. When he returned, Geralt was very intently staring at his own deck as he shuffled the cards. 

“So, normally the loser has to hand over his best card, but I have a better idea,” Jaskier said, flopping into his chair and flinging his legs over the arms. “We play different factions, so my cards would mean bugger all to you. Let's play for something more interesting.”

Geralt leaned forward a little, dealing himself a full hand. “What are you offering?”

“I’ve spent too many nights without a dance partner. I want you to come with me to the party tomorrow night. It’s not formal - just artists and our friends.”

Geralt hummed, drumming his fingers against the table. “And if I win? What do I get?”

“Whatever you want.”

The smile that spread across Geralt’s face was almost predatory. “That’s a dangerous offer, Jaskier.”

“Please,” Jaskier snorted, not remotely intimidated. “What could you ask for that would worry me?”

There was a pause as Geralt considered his options. “I want to teach you how to fight. We’ll train thrice a week until the spring comes.”

Jaskier’s expression fell. He’d learnt to wield a rapier in his youth, and he had hated every second of it. He abhorred violence, and the idea of getting bruised and sweaty in training sounded like hell. But he had promised Geralt anything, and he would not back out of the bet now. He pulled a ridiculous grimace and nodded.

“Fine. If you win, you can teach me to fight. If I win, we go to a party - and you must behave!”

“Deal,” Geralt said. They shook on it, and the game began. 

There was, Jaskier knew, little chance of him winning. Geralt played in formal competitions and won more often than not, while Jaskier preferred games with more cheating and less strategy. He played to entertain Geralt, not himself. The bet had been a spur-of-the-moment idea to try and make a boring game seem interesting. He had assumed there was nothing Geralt would want that he was unwilling to give; if it was a task he loathed, he trusted his ability to complain until Geralt let him go. But teaching him to fight was something Geralt had wanted for a long time, and complaining would not let him out of it. Geralt saw it as a matter of safety, and there were few things he valued above Jaskier’s safety. Jaskier was stuck.

Sweat dripped down the back of Jaskier’s neck as he stared at his hand. He had not been lucky. Even the card he had slipped up his sleeve while dealing would be little help. He took a deep breath and put down his first card. Something lurched in his gut as he did so, as if he had just signed his own death warrant. In desperation, he considered praying, but there were no gods of gwent to beg for luck. 

Across the table, Geralt lay down his card. The entire time, he stared at Jaskier, watching for his reaction. Jaskier flinched. Beating that card would be expensive, and Gwent consisted of three rounds, so he folded immediately. It was a reliable strategy. He expected Geralt to end his turn and declare victory, but to Jaskier's surprise, he did not. He watched, flabbergasted, as Geralt lay down a series of unnecessary cards before ending his turn. He folded quickly on the second round, allowing Jaskier to keep most of his cards for the final round. Jaskier felt his heart pound in his chest. This could be his chance. Whoever won the round would win the game, and the fact that he had lasted this long meant he was performing better than usual. It would not be enough to beat Geralt, but it might be enough to get him out of fighting. He took a deep breath and painted on a smile.

“So, Geralt, how about that bet? You still feeling confident?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re not getting cold feet, are you, Jaskier?”

“Of course not,” Jaskier snapped, and slammed his first card down on the table. With a smirk on his face, Geralt laid down his first card. The smirk remained as the round progressed, despite Geralt making several mistakes that even Jaskier knew to avoid. When he lost the round, he sighed and leaned back in his chair with his eyes shut. One hand covered his face, concealing his expression from view. 

“Fuck.”

Disbelieving, Jaskier stared at the table. “I won.”

A grin started to spread across his face. He’d won. He, a humble bard, had beaten the renowned Gwent champion at his own game. His fear and anxiety about the training vanished. He bounced to his feet and gave a theatrical bow.

“It was, of course, only a matter of time before I bested you, but rest assured, my dear Geralt, this will not go to my head.”

Geralt grunted. His eyes cracked open just a sliver, giving Jaskier a glimpse of gold. Jaskier blew him a kiss.

“Don’t sulk. It doesn’t suit you. And you are to be on your best behaviour at the party tomorrow! I expect you to be the very model of a besotted husband.”

“Already said I’d go. You don’t need to rub it in.”

“Maybe I want to,” Jaskier said. He swaggered over and sat in Geralt’s lap, wrapping one hand around the back of his neck. “Or maybe I’ll save it till then. You won’t be able to complain when you’re on your best behaviour, after all.”

Geralt sighed. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Utterly,” Jaskier said. “Will you let me dress you?”

“Are you planning on giving me a choice?”

Jaskier considered it. He could abuse his situation and bully Geralt into something fashionable and bright, something that showed off just how attractive he really was. The idea was sorely tempting, but if he did it, he would lose any hope of Geralt enjoying himself. It was a price he was surprisingly unwilling to pay.

“How about teamwork?”

Something in Geralt’s expression softened. He nodded, and Jaskier beamed in response. He patted Geralt on the cheek before bouncing to his feet and swaggering through to the bedroom. Against all odds, he had won. If only he'd made the stakes of the bet higher.


	10. Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the comments on the last chapter! It really motivates me to push to get the next chapter out on time.
> 
> content warnings: the usual drinking and gambling, as well as some heavy, very non-PG flirting.

There was, Jaskier learnt, one very big flaw in his plan to bring Geralt to the party. Geralt needed a new outfit. This was a problem for two reasons. The first and most obvious issue was Geralt’s deep-seated hatred of getting new clothes made, despite his recent patience. To his credit, he did not once complain throughout the process. But Jaskier knew him well enough to spot the tension in his body and the misery in his eyes as he was measured and fit. To make up for the situation, Jaskier did his best to keep him entertained. He prattled on throughout the fitting, plying Geralt with jokes and compliments in equal measure, pulling every trick he knew to get a smile on his face. While he did not win a smile, some of the tension eased out of Geralt’s body. 

As badly as Jaskier wanted to style Geralt’s new outfit to suit his own, he instead picked out a deep navy to complement his own bright blue. Both outfits had embroidery in the same golden thread. It was cutting-edge fashion, but _artist_ fashion, not court fashion. They could get away with a simpler cut and more practical shoes, two things which made Geralt much happier. He cut was also tighter, showing off Geralt's narrow waist. 

When Geralt at last bathed and dressed for the evening, Jaskier grabbed a nearby book and used it to fan himself.

“Geralt, between us, we are going to break so many hearts tonight.”

He did not give Geralt time to protest, linking their arms together and leading him out of their quarters. As they walked, he explained the event in full detail. The party was being held in a function room set aside for the assorted visiting artists. There would be performances from all of them, including, of course, Jaskier. Between the performances, there would be food and ale aplenty. Geralt perked up considerably at the promise of alcohol, even moreso when Jaskier assured him it would be stronger than he was used to at parties. This was not a gathering of nobles interested in picking at half-empty plates and sipping fine wine. This was a gathering of artists who would be drinking to drink, not to show off their refined palate.

As soon as they stepped in, one of Jaskier’s friends stepped forward. “Jaskier! I thought you said you wouldn’t be able to convince your husband to come.”

“He lost a bet. Gwent,” Jaskier said, unable to keep a smug grin off his face. “Geralt, this is Eilidh, she plays the Skelligan pipes. Eilidh, may I present my beloved husband, Geralt of Rivia.”

“A pleasure,” Geralt said, inclining his head slightly. 

“Likewise. You’re much more polite than Jaskier lead me to believe,” Eilidh said with a mischievous grin. Geralt chuckled, ignoring Jaskier’s squawks of protest. 

“He likes to exaggerate. He claims it’s his prerogative as a poet.” 

“Ah, I know exactly the type. Never let the truth get in the way of a good story,” Eilidh said with a wink. “My brothers were the same. They raid one little Nilfgaardian fishing skiff, and you’d think they’d robbed the emperor himself.”

“Sounds like Skellige,” Geralt agreed with a snort of laughter. “Do you have any news? It’s been a while since I visited.”

Eilidh’s eyes lit up. “You’ve been to Skellige?”

At Geralt’s nod, she grabbed him by the arm and tugged him in the direction of a comfortable set of chairs. “Come on, Jask can do without you for a bit. Half these bloody northerners haven’t been to sea, let alone visited the isles. I haven't had anyone sensible to talk to in months.”

Bemused and helpless, Jaskier watched as Geralt was dragged away. He did not seem at all put out by the situation, especially when Eilidh grabbed them each a pint of ale. He watched for a few moments before turning away. If anyone in the room could be trusted to keep Geralt entertained, it was Eilidh. She had a fantastic and blatantly inaccurate tale about spending the night with a siren that would have Geralt apoplectic at the misinformation, but it would keep him busy.

With Geralt distracted, Jaskier used the opportunity to network, connecting with his fellow artists and gossiping about the court. When he at last looked around for Geralt, he was surprised to find a small crowd had gathered around him. Jaskier rushed over, fearing the worst. As he got closer, he was delighted to discover Geralt having an argument with a bard about both the factual accuracy and rhyming scheme used in a particular song. The audience, lured in by the promise of information about monsters and adventure, had since been won over by Geralt himself. 

“You’re biased,” the criticised bard hissed.

“He certainly is,” Jaskier said, swaggering in and plopping himself in Geralt’s lap. “He’s not wrong, though, harpies are not remotely sexy.”

“And it doesn’t rhyme.”

“Well, then,” Jaskier said, and gave the bard his most judgemental look. 

“Your songs don’t always rhyme,” the bard shot back.

“Yeah, but his songs are actually good,” Geralt said. The group gathered around them burst out laughing and jeering at the other bard. The bard across the table stood to his feet and slunk away, defeated. Jaskier wrapped his arms around Geralt’s neck and let out a happy sigh.

“That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Geralt said, and brushed his lips against Jaskier’s temple. Jaskier flushed from his head to his toes. He scrambled to find a distraction, eventually latching on to the sound of a dancing tune being played. He jumped to his feet and held out a hand.

“Come on, my darling husband, you owe me a dance.”

Geralt stared at him for a moment, then took his hand without a word of complaint. Hand in hand, they stepped out onto the dance floor. Though they had not practiced for some time, Geralt still remembered everything Jaskier had taught him. He knew when to step back and when to turn, and when Jaskier decided to improvise, he knew how to take his cues. The entire time, his eyes were fixed on Jaskier’s face. Jaskier flushed under the attention, preening and glowing but more self-conscious than he could ever remember being. He found himself wondering what imperfections Geralt could see in his skin. Even he could see the odd blemish or line in the mirror, and compared to Geralt he was as blind as a bat. But if Geralt disliked what he saw, there was no sign of it on his face. Jaskier could not say what, exactly, Geralt’s expression said, but there was a tiny smile on his face and a strange softness in his eyes. 

They did not stop dancing until time came for Jaskier to play his set. He delivered Geralt to Eilidh, who greeted Geralt like an old friend. She introduced him to her companions, then leaned behind his back to wink at Jaskier and give him a thumbs up. Satisfied, Jaskier dashed up to the stage. It was not often he got a chance to perform for fellow artists, and it was an opportunity he relished. There were certain musical or lyrical hooks that only trained artists could appreciate, and Jaskier intended to show off every one of them. 

He found Geralt and Eilidh in a corner, once again with a small group around them. As he approached, Jaskier spotted what Geralt was holding and let out a groan. Gwent. He should have known better than to leave Geralt alone for more than five minutes. Eilidh stood behind Geralt, gleefully counting a large and growing pile of coins, jewellery, and other valuable baubles. When Jaskier approached, she pointed to him.

“You! You lied to me!” she accused. The smile on her face belied her anger, which was a profound relief. Jaskier told many lies, but if she was smiling, he could not have been caught in anything too dreadful.

“Which time?”

She planted both her hands on Geralt’s shoulders. It was a brave move for someone who had known him less than a night, and worse, Geralt did not seem to mind. Jaskier narrowed his eyes. Squeezing Geralt’s shoulders, she said,

“You expect me to believe that this man lost to _you_ at Gwent?”

“Um. Yes?” Jaskier said. Several people laughed. For the first time, Geralt looked up from the game and frowned, glaring at the people laughing one by one.

“I don’t see what’s so unbelievable about that,” Geralt said. 

“Geralt, my love, betting on you tonight has made me a rich woman,” Eilidh said. “Jaskier doesn’t know how many cards to a hand without help. You can’t honestly expect me to believe he beat you.”

Something lurched in Jaskier’s gut, even as anger flared hot at the term ‘my love’. He dismissed the anger to deal with later. What mattered, at least at the moment, was that Eilidh was right. He could never beat Geralt in a fair game, not if Geralt was playing to win. He made eye contact with Geralt. After a second, Geralt back to look at his cards, avoiding eye contact with anyone else. 

“Never said he played fair,” Geralt muttered. “He’s distracting. He’s got... legs.”

“Distracting,” Eilidh echoed, skepticism dripping from her tone. “ _Legs._ ”

“My legs are fantastic!” Jaskier protested, at the same time as Geralt said,

“Very distracting.”

He looked up at Jaskier, and Jaskier could have sworn his heart leapt from his chest. In the space of a few seconds, Geralt had managed to craft his face into the most love-struck expression Jaskier had ever seen. His face was soft and lax, and there was a warm, adoring smile on his face. But the longer he stared, the more flaws in the facade Jaskier began to see. When Geralt really smiled, it was a little lopsided, while this was perfectly even and portrait-perfect. Still, the smile he could have dismissed, if not for Geralt’s eyes. His pupils had not shifted one bit. When relaxed, Geralt’s pupils tended to dilate when he saw something he liked, even if just for a second before he pulled himself under control. It was a habit he took care to hide in company. Now, it served as a damning reminder that Geralt’s sweetness was not for Jaskier, but for their audience. 

Geralt’s opponent set down a card. The crowd murmured, and Geralt looked back to his game. He frowned. He looked at his hand, then the table, then let out a heartfelt ‘fuck’. Jaskier stepped up beside him and peered at his hand. While distracted by Jaskier and Eilidh, Geralt had made a crucial mistake in his strategy. 

“Fuck,” Eilidh said. “You weren’t kidding. He’s not even doing anything.”

Despite Jaskier’s assessment that the game was unwinnable, Geralt managed to come from behind and scrape a win. He turned in after that, claiming his luck had run out. Relieved to have an excuse to leave, Jaskier wrapped an arm around his waist and steered him over towards where the food was being served. Geralt let himself be led. When he did not put a hand on Jaskier himself, Jaskier huffed and used his free hand to grab Geralt’s arm and put it around his shoulders. 

“Honestly, it looks like you don’t even want to touch me,” he whispered, so quiet only Geralt had any hope of hearing him. Geralt grumbled, but his arm settled around Jaskier’s shoulder and pulled him a little closer.

The food, as Jaskier had predicted, was plentiful. Even Geralt could eat his fill, devouring three large bowls of a wine-heavy stew that had been cooked for hours. When they moved on to dessert, Jaskier packed a plate full of sweet little pastries and led them to a lounge in the corner. At his instruction, Geralt sat. Jaskier then plopped himself in his lap and held a sugar-dusted pastry to his mouth, waggling his eyebrows.

“All for you, sweet husband,” he cooed, loud enough for passers-by to hear. Geralt raised his eyebrows. When Jaskier did not back down, his eyes flicked to the pastry, then up to Jaskier’s. Maintaining eye contact, he took the pastry between his mouth, his lips brushing over Jaskier’s fingers. A flush spread over Jaskier’s face. Witchers, his decided, must have magic lips, because his fingers tingled at the touch. When he pulled back, Geralt smirked, smug and arrogant. 

“You’re lucky I didn’t bite your fingers off.”

Nearby, someone gave a snort of laughter. Jaskier was tempted to follow suit. He tapped Geralt on the nose and said,

“I’m your husband, you need these fingers.” 

The person who had laughed choked on their drink, and Geralt shook his head with a tiny smile. This, Jaskier thought, was the kind of smile he liked to see. It was not an awkward grin painted on to appease the public, but a small, private thing meant for Jaskier alone. Pleased by the reaction, Jaskier picked up another pastry and devoured it, licking the sugar off his fingers. When he caught Geralt watching, he laughed.

“Don’t think you can hide from me. I know you have a sweet tooth.”

“Witchers don’t - “

“Don’t you ‘witchers don’t’ at me,” Jaskier scolded. “Remember last spring, when you broke your witcher code and accepted strawberries and honey as payment?”

He waited for Geralt to open his mouth to protest, then popped another pastry into Geralt’s mouth. There was a pause as Geralt froze, mouth open, pastry whole. He glared at Jaskier. Jaskier smiled back so hard his cheeks hurt. 

“You’re welcome,” he said, when Geralt finally gave in and ate the pastry. After he swallowed, he fixed Jaskier with a glare.

“I hate you.”

“That’s the spirit,” Jaskier said, and patted him on the cheek. “Now we look like a real married couple. Nothing like some marital discord to make things believable.”

Geralt sighed. It was one of his exhausted sighs, the kind he normally pulled out about two minutes before Jaskier’s brilliant plans turned mysteriously to shit. 

“You keep this up, and I’m going to sleep on the couch.”

“I believe the traditional threat is that I will be made to sleep on the couch,” Jaskier corrected him. Geralt snorted

“Yeah, but then I’ve got to deal with your cranky ass the next day.”

“Oh, no,” Jaskier gasped, putting a hand over his heart and swooning backwards dramatically. “How will you cope? The brave, indomitable witcher, brought low by one slightly grumpy - “

“Slightly?”

Jaskier continued, increasing in volume. “ _slightly_ grumpy, put upon, woefully underappreciated -- “

The end of Jaskier’s sentence was muffled by a large hand appearing across his mouth. He glared at Geralt. There was amusement in his golden eyes, and a tiny smirk pulling up the corners of his lips. When Jaskier tried to speak and only managed an ‘mmmf’, the smirk grew. Jaskier rolled his eyes. With reason gone, he resorted to pettiness. He licked Geralt’s palm. There was a tiny twitch in Geralt’s arm, and the smirk vanished from Geralt’s face. He did not remove his hand, but it was a good first step. Jaskier licked him again. This time, Geralt removed his hand and let out another exhausted sigh.

“Now I know why kidnappers always gag you.”

“Oh! That is rude,” Jaskier said, and poked Geralt in the chest. “Those experiences were very traumatic, you know. I had to wait hours for you to rescue me, last time, and they ruined my doublet. Maybe I should tie you up and gag you for a few hours, see how you like it.”

“Hm,” Geralt said. It was not an uncommon response, but the tone was unlike any Jaskier had ever heard. He squinted at Geralt. 

“Are you doing your guilt thing again? You know how I feel about that.”

“What?” Geralt asked. He seemed confused, and after a couple of seconds he shook his head. “I mean, uh, sure. It’s that.”

“Well, stop,” Jaskier huffed. “It’s not your fault, and I am sick to death of you trying to take the blame for it. You rescued me every time. You always will.”

“I’ll always try,” Geralt corrected. Jaskier sighed and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Geralt. Tonight is supposed to be a party. No sulking allowed.”

“I’m not sulking.”

Ordinarily, the claim would have been a blatant lie, but this time, Jaskier wondered. The usual sullen glare on Geralt’s face was missing. He was relaxed as he ever was in public, and he had not been any ruder than his usual self. 

“If you’re not sulking,” Jaskier decided, “then shouldn’t mind dancing again.”

“Fuck. I walked right into that one,” Geralt sighed, but despite his grousing, he got to his feet as soon as Jaskier gave him space to do so. Laughing, Jaskier dragged him back out onto the dance floor. They danced until Jaskier’s legs began to ache, and he leaned against Geralt’s chest with a happy sigh.

“I never get to dance this much. Everyone is convinced you’ll eviscerate them for laying so much as a hand on me.”

“And instead of proving them wrong by dancing in front of me, you’re dancing with me.”

“Well. It’s even rarer to dance with you,” Jaskier said. When Geralt raised an eyebrow, Jaskier broke away, muttering something about needing a drink. 

Rather than finding the bar, Jaskier stumbled out onto a small, blisteringly cold balcony. He was frozen solid almost instantly, but that was not his main concern. Geralt raised an excellent point. Even for a couple deeply in love, it was unusual for them to exclusively dance with one another. It was even more unusual when one half of the couple openly disliked dancing. Geralt was neither the prettiest nor the most skilled dance partner in the room, and he would not have complained if Jaskier had wanted to spend the evening flitting from arm to arm. He would have tucked himself into a corner and cheerfully gambled the night away. Jaskier would have proved his point, and Geralt would have been spared an evening of insufferable boredom. 

Instead, he’d danced with Geralt the entire night. It hadn’t even occurred to him to seek another partner. If it had not been pointed out to him, he likely would not have realized that he had done anything strange at all. He stared up at the night sky, as if the stars would have the answers. They twinkled uselessly above him, pretty and petty and mocking him. In frustration, he shouted an insult at the sky and made a rude gesture. A familiar chuckle came from behind him. He spun on the spot to find Geralt in the doorway, a cup of vodka in each hand. 

“I was going to offer you a drink, but something tells me you’ve had enough.”

Jaskier winced. “I have not had nearly enough to withstand being caught like this.”

“You’re having at least three glasses of water before going to bed tonight,” Geralt told him. Jaskier sighed. He leaned back against the balcony, hugging himself and shivering. 

“Did it occur to you I might have come out here for some privacy?”

“You want me to leave?”

“No!” Jaskier said quickly. A small smile spread across Geralt’s face. He drained one cup of vodka and stepped up beside Jaskier, leaning against the balcony with him. When Jaskier reached for his glass, he realized the arm closest to him held the empty cup. He huffed.

“Mean.”

Geralt’s lips quirked. “You’re sure you want a hangover?”

“Geralt, I’m not drunk. I’ve scarcely had time to drink tonight, and I don’t plan on changing that.”

“That’s true, but if you get drunk enough to vomit on your clothes, I’m not helping you clean it up,” Geralt warned him. Jaskier snorted and took the vodka. At the same time, he stepped in close, pressing against Geralt’s body for warmth. When Geralt did not move, he reached up to grab his arm and wrap it around himself for warmth. 

“You’re a lousy liar, you know. You always take care of me.”

“Someone has to,” Geralt shrugged. Jaskier suppressed a snort of laughter. Both of them knew damn well that Geralt went to incredible lengths for Jaskier’s sake. That kind of loyalty was not offered to just anyone. There were few people Geralt would attend this kind of party for, let alone spend an entire winter with. The thought sobered him, and he tilted his head back to look at Geralt.

“You ready to go back to our rooms?”

There was a tiny twitch as Geralt made to move for the balcony door, then stopped himself. “Party’s not done.”

“But you’d be happier back in bed with one of those books you won’t let me read.”

Geralt inclined his head, a small smile tugging on the corners of his mouth. “You know me too well. But I was under the impression tonight was about you, not me.”

The idea that Geralt would endure an event he hated purely for Jaskier’s happiness was surprisingly unsettling. He could only hope this was a one-off event, and not indicative of a larger pattern. Logic suggested otherwise, given Geralt had agreed to marry him, but Jaskier had never put much stock in logic. In times like this, he preferred hope. As it was, Jaskier found himself unable to stand the idea of staying a moment longer. 

“C’mon. Let’s go.”

“You’re sure no one will mind? You won’t mind?”

“People will gossip,” Jaskier allowed. “But that’s what people do.”

A small frown tugged on the corners of Geralt’s mouth. Given the kind of gossip normally spread about witchers, Jaskier could not fault his reaction. He nudged Geralt gently in the ribs and said,

“It’s not so bad when you control the narrative. You don’t mind your soldier buddies making assumptions about our sex life, after all.”

“That’s different.”

Jaskier grinned up at him and nudged him in the ribs. “Not with what I’m planning. Go on, go inside. And remember to look suitably love struck when I come in and seduce you.”

“But - “

“No buts!” Jaskier said, and gave him a small shove. “Well, maybe. Don’t panic if I grab yours. Just go!”

“Jaskier,” Geralt protested. Too used to letting Jaskier manoeuvre him, he did not think to resist being pushed inside until it was too late. With a grin, Jaskier shut the door behind him. When Geralt turned and glared at him through the glass, Jaskier grinned and gave him a cheeky wave. Geralt sighed, then turned away. With Geralt distracted, Jaskier began formulating his plan. He was going to seduce Geralt. It would be fake, of course, but only he and Geralt would know that. The rest of the world would see a love-struck witcher following at Jaskier to bed at Jaskier’s request, instead of a grumpy Geralt tolerating Jaskier’s ideas. 

He began by tugging his doublet a little further open, past fashionable and into risque. He then rolled up the leg of his trousers, teasingly showing just a hint of ankle. Once ready, he took a deep breath to steady himself. He’d seduced people before. This ought to be less intimidating than that because this time, there was no risk of rejection. But he could not ignore the butterflies in his stomach, nor the rapid pounding of his heart in his chest. 

Despite his fear, he fixed an arrogant smirk on his face as he swaggered back into the room. He prowled towards Geralt with all the grace of a predator stalking its prey. Geralt spotted him quickly. He cut off his conversation, his mouth parting a little at the sight of Jaskier. Unbidden, the smirk on Jaskier’s face grew. He could get used to Geralt looking at him like that, wide eyed and willing. He swaggered across the floor, running his eyes over Geralt’s body. Once near, he stepped too close into Geralt’s personal space and put his hands on his waist. 

“There you are,” he purred. It took skill to make a low and seductive tone travel, but fortunately, Jaskier’s time on the stage had handled that. He ran his hands up Geralt’s torso. They were nearly the same height, but Jaskier tilted his head just right so he could look up at Geralt through his lashes. 

“The things I’m going to do to you,” Jaskier said. He leaned in close, sliding his hands to Geralt’s back, then down to grope at his rear. At the same time, he swayed in and whispered in Geralt’s ear, 

“Play along.”

Geralt grunted. His hands hovered uncertainly in the air for a moment before settling onto Jaskier’s hips. He then turned his head, bringing their lips dangerously close together. Jaskier’s eyes darted down to his mouth, then up to his eyes. There was something there that Jaskier could not read, but it did not look like discomfort or distress. Throwing caution to the wind, he closed the gap and kissed him. Geralt made a small sound against his mouth, his hands coming up to grasp at his doublet. Jaskier grinned against his mouth.

“Someone’s eager,” he teased. He then ran a hand along Geralt’s arm and took one of his hands, folding it in his own. “Are you going to be good for me?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt protested, his voice coming out rough and low. The sound did nothing for the anticipation building in Jaskier’s gut. The realization that his nerves had shifted into desire was like stepping into a sudden snow drift. The sooner he ended this, Jaskier decided, the better. Keeping a seductive smile on his face, he used his hold on Geralt’s hand to lead him from the room. Several people stared at them, but to Jaskier’s relief, Geralt did not seem to notice. 

He did not drop Geralt’s hand until they were safely back in their quarters. He let out a sigh and leaned against the closed door.

“Well. I’d say that worked.”

Geralt grunted. The sound made Jaskier wince, especially when he stomped through to their bedroom. Jaskier followed close on his heels.

“Listen, if you’re embarrassed, you have only yourself to blame. You didn’t have to come.”

“Lost the bet,” Geralt pointed out. He ignored Jaskier, walking to the small basin in the corner and splashing his face with cold water. Jaskier huffed. He stood at the foot of the bed with his arms crossed, glaring at Geralt.

“Eilidh was right.”

“Nah, I’ve been to Skellige,” Geralt said, shaking his head. “Trust me, you don’t want to fuck a siren.”

The non-sequitur threw Jaskier off-beat. After a moment, he started to laugh so hard he was forced to sit down, giggling too hard to stay upright. Of course. The story about the siren would be the thing Geralt remembered most. Geralt ignored his amusement, pulling the tie out of his hair and beginning to dress down for the evening. His shoes were set in the corner, and his doublet hung in the wardrobe. When he recovered himself, Jaskier said,

“No, Geralt, your other favourite thing.”

Geralt paused with his undershirt half over his head, concealing his expression. After a few seconds, he pulled it off and said,

“But she didn’t say anything about -- “

“Gwent, Geralt,” Jaskier interrupted. “You threw the game yesterday. Why?”

Geralt hesitated. He stared at the shirt in his hands, frowning at the garment as if it were responsible for getting him into this mess. 

“Does it matter?”

“Yes!” Jaskier insisted. With a sigh, Geralt hung up his shirt. While facing the wardrobe, he spoke.

“You were upset. Really upset. I couldn’t back out without your stupid pride getting in the way, and I didn’t want to make you miserable. Losing was the only option. Figured one night at a party was better than you moping all winter.”

“You’ve gone soft,” Jaskier accused him, poking him in the ribs as he leaned past to hang up his own doublet. “You make me do things I hate all the time. I do the same to you. Like tonight.”

“Yeah, but not things that actually upset you,” Geralt said. “And tonight wasn’t awful.”

Silence fell for three whole minutes before Jaskier spoke up. He told Geralt about the rapier training he had endured as a child, and the bruises and humiliation that had come with it. He had promised himself he would never endure something so uncomfortable and degrading again. It was, he knew, nothing compared to what Geralt had endured, but Geralt listened without judgement. By the time he finished, they had both stripped down to their sleeping clothes and lay side-by side on the bed.

“Still,” Jaskier finished, staring at the ceiling. “I can’t believe I thought I beat you.”

“Hey, look on the bright side,” Geralt said. When Jaskier looked over at him, he grinned. “That was the hardest Gwent game I’ve ever played.”

Jaskier stared at him for a second. “Oh, fuck you.”

Geralt snickered. Before he could formulate a verbal response, Jaskier elbowed him in the ribs. The snicker turned into a chuckle, then a full-blown laugh when Jaskier hit him with a pillow. Without thinking, Jaskier tackled him. The two of them rolled on the bed, wrestling for sport. It was not the first time an argument had devolved into childish wrestling, and Geralt had refined his role to an art. Both of them knew Geralt could win in a heartbeat, but that was not the point. He reigned in his strength and speed and let Jaskier succeed at almost half the moves he tried, while Jaskier himself threw everything he had into the battle. It ended, as it usually did, with Jaskier pinned under Geralt. Both of them were laughing too hard to talk, and when Jaskier held up his hands in surrender, Geralt shifted off and gave him space. As he settled down once again, Jaskier reached out and touched his arm.

“Hey, Geralt? Thanks.”

“Mm. Next time, think twice before betting.”

“We both know i won’t listen to that,” Jaskier said, earning another quiet snort of laughter. When he eventually drifted off to sleep, Jaskier’s dreams were filled with laughter and warmth.


	11. Confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments and kudos! I hope you enjoy this one.

After the artist’s party, Geralt and Jaskier made it a habit to spend one day a week resting together. They never agreed to it verbally, but without fail, Geralt would appear with a clear schedule. Jaskier loved it. It was the closest Geralt had ever come (and likely would ever come) to taking a break. That he did so for Jaskier’s sake said something about how dearly Geralt valued him, even if he struggled to express it. It was doubly true given how busy Geralt’s schedule usually was. Commander Honeycutt developed a sudden and insatiable desire for knowledge of monsters and how to combat them. When not interrogating Geralt, she spent her time with the queen, guarding her day and night. 

Commander Honeycutt’s borderline feverish devotion to her work was not without cause. Strange things were happening around the palace. The hunting dogs turned into barghests and escaped their kennels, killing two people before word reached Geralt. An archespore appeared amongst the rose bushes, which Geralt promptly set alight, and three wraiths chased Mother Nadia from the chapel. And from the rumours Jaskier began to hear, none of this was new. Monsters and magic had been popping up since late spring. It was sheer luck that Jaskier had encountered none of the threats first hand. The closest he had come to the action was with the werewolf, but with Geralt by his side, he had been in no danger.

Jaskier only learnt about the monsters when Geralt stomped into their quarters with black eyes and a scowl on his face. On those days, Jaskier did what he could to clear his schedule. He had learnt the hard way not to give Geralt time to convince himself that Jaskier was frightened of his black eyes and deathly pale skin. It was up to Jaskier to remind him being a witcher didn't make him any less human. Every time, he shepherded Geralt towards the bathroom, complaining about the state of his armour and the stench of monster blood. While Geralt bathed, Jaskier would invite himself in and out of the bathroom, talking the entire time. It was selfish of Jaskier, but he treasured those times. Geralt went to great lengths to avoid people seeing him heavily affected by toxins when there was no immediate threat to deal with. Jaskier had become the exception. He intended to stay that way. And if the method for staying that way meant spending hours lazing around with his best friend, he could not be faulted for enjoying it. Even in a foul mood, Geralt was good company.

But by far the best days remained when they both took a full day for leisure. It was an indulgence he had never dreamed of getting from Geralt, and now that he had it, he treasured it. Sometimes they wandered the palace, whether the visiting the gardens or the galleries or artists. Other times they stayed in their quarters, talking or playing games. If Jaskier needed to practice, Geralt would settle on the bed with his books. Sometimes, if Jaskier was very, very lucky, he would abandon his books to sit and listen to the music, relaxed and looking utterly content. He knew by now which songs Geralt liked best. He had more refined taste than Jaskier ever could have anticipated, preferring complex instrumentals and and clever wordplay to bawdy tavern songs. Despite being uneducated in the arts, he had an appreciation and a natural ear for talent, when he could be convinced to share it. He enjoyed learning, too, so long as Jaskier did not give him the opportunity to notice the stark difference in their educations. Geralt was educated, but he was no university graduate. Sometimes, Jaskier wondered what Geralt might have achieved had he had such opportunities. It was a question Geralt resented, but Jaskier liked to think he might have excelled given the chance.

When their day off coincided with market day, Jaskier dragged them into the city. While Geralt grumbled, he tolerated it, allowing Jaskier to hold his hand and as he bounced from stall to stall. Even in winter, the vendors had an ever-changing array of wares. On one trip, a stall full of fine furs caught his eye. On another, it was a display of silver hair clips. When he examined the clips further, he delighted over the craftsmanship. Each one was a work of art, whether it was twisted in the shape of an animal or a simple geometric pattern. He lingered over them for a full minute. Could he convince Geralt to wear one? He was certain it would look striking in his silver-white hair, and he deserved to have a touch of luxury in his life. He looked up and opened his mouth, intending to ask Geralt himself, only to close it when he saw Geralt’s face. A collection of simple leather headbands had caught his eye, just next to the clips. There was something almost covetous about his gaze that made Jaskier curious. He picked one of the bands up and settled it around Geralt’s head, cutting a horizontal line across his skull and securing his hair back. At the same time, he undid the leather tie pulling Geralt’s hair back, allowing the headband to do its job. When he leaned back to inspect his handiwork, he drew a sharp breath.

“Wowie, I did not expect it to look that good.”

He’d expected it to look good, but that was because most things looked good on Geralt. This, though, seemed to fit him better than most things, providing a point of contrast against his milk-white hair and pallid skin. Jaskier had always loved the way Geralt looked with his hair out, and this mirrored that but suited Geralt’s practicality. It was perfect. Before Geralt could say anything, he grabbed the cheap copper mirror and held it up for Geralt. Geralt’s eyes widened a little. A very faint smile tugged on the corners of his lips. It was the most positive reaction Jaskier had ever seen him have to his own appearance. The sight made Jaskier’s heart stutter in his chest, and he could not have stopped the affectionate smile on his face if he had tried. Gods, he loved this man. The thought filled his lungs with an expanding swell of affection, even as it soothed him and comforted him. If only Geralt could see himself the way Jaskier saw him. Jaskier forgot the silver clips entirely and instead bought three headbands on the spot. Geralt tried to argue, but Jaskier did not let him get so much as a word in.

“This is entirely selfish, I assure you. I’m the one that looks at you all day long. You’re handsome at the best of times, but like this? You look incredible. Dashing. Debonair, even. You’ll need those swords to keep all your new suitors at bay.”

The very tips of Geralt’s ears turned pink. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Always,” Jaskier said, and kissed his cheek. He took three steps away, then froze in the middle of the market.

He was in love with Geralt.

He turned on the spot and stared at Geralt with wide eyes. Love was not something Jaskier had ever been interested in. Lust was much more pleasant, and while it came with dangers, he found them more acceptable than the risk of a broken heart. And yet here he was, head-over-heels in love. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt asked. 

“Sorry. Just - I - uh....” Jaskier scrambled to think of an excuse for his strange behaviour, and ended up blurting, “I put my underwear on backwards!”

Geralt stared at him, his eyebrows pulling together in confusion. “And?”

“It’s bad luck!” Jaskier said. “Dreadful luck, really, we’re lucky, haha, I haven’t been struck by lightning already! I simply must change, Geralt.”

“I’ve still got to collect my pay,” Geralt reminded him.

“Perfect!” Jaskier said, jumping on the opportunity. “We can meet up at the inn, the one by the fountain. I’ll just - go, now.”

He dropped Geralt’s hand and dashed off in the direction of the palace. Once safely out of sight, he leaned against a wall and exhaled slowly. He dabbed at his forehead with a clean handkerchief, wiping away the panicked sweat. His heart pounded wildly in his chest. _Love_. When had that happened? Geralt had long been his dearest friend, but that was a kind of love he had been familiar with. This was different. He’d been attracted to Geralt from the start, he knew, but when had it turned into this? Jaskier mulled it over, but he could not find a clear answer. 

Even the attraction had been a surprise. Jaskier was very clear on what he liked, and while there was room for ruggedly handsome warriors, his first impression of Geralt had been that he was grumpy and ugly and smelled of horses and sweat. The smell, at least, had not changed. But, Melitile help him, that hadn’t stopped him. Because as badly as he tried to deny it, Geralt was kind and loyal and too noble for his own good. He could make Jaskier laugh at the most inappropriate of times with his dreadful sense of humour. He made the bad times easier and the good times better. He was Jaskier’s dearest friend and undoubtedly the most important person in his life. And at some point, Jaskier had fallen in love with him. 

He could not pinpoint when. He sifted through his memories, searching for the moment, the little ‘oh’ that would have changed his life had he noticed it. He could not find it. There was no groundbreaking moment where he had fallen in love. He had walked into it blindly, his eyes shut, never once noticing what he was doing until he was miles beneath the surface. It was a part of him now, as much as his lute or his poetry or his love of silk. There was nothing to do but accept it. 

That was corner of his mind whispered to him: even if he accepted it, Geralt would not. The thought made Jaskier’s heart plunge past his stomach. There were times when Geralt struggled to believe he had friends; convincing him that he was loved would be impossible, and there would be no reward for it. He would run. Jaskier swallowed heavily, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes at the unfairness of it all. He’d never stood a chance. He’d seen Geralt’s type. Jaskier was neither great nor terrible. The only power he had was his words, and that vanished under enough pressure. 

He would have to hide it. The alternative -- Jaskier was not sure if Geralt would even believe it, or if he would think Jaskier was mocking him, or if he would be disgusted, but none of the options were reassuring. He could not let Geralt know.

There was one silver lining. It was a wicked, vile silver lining that Jaskier would not even consider were he a better man, but one he intended to take full advantage of: their marriage gave him unprecedented license to Geralt’s affection. He could kiss Geralt. He could flirt with him, and touch him, and be secure in the knowledge that Geralt would tolerate it. His reaction to the kiss after training seemed irrelevant. Geralt had as good as promised he wouldn’t bolt again, and he was a man of his word. 

Once Jaskier was confident he had his feelings in order, he made his way to the tavern. He took the long way there, admiring the shops and the architecture as he went. The chill of winter bit at his nose and sank into his bones, but he paid it no heed, confident he would soon be warm and comfortable. He pushed open the door to the tavern and was greeted by the flare of warmth from the hearth. He took a seat beside the fire and waited for Geralt to arrive. 

Within minutes of Jaskier sitting down, a barmaid made eye contact with him. He smiled as charmingly as he could manage. He was married, yes, but nothing said he couldn’t be polite, and a little flirting had never hurt anyone. Maybe a pretty smile would help him forget his witcher for a few minutes. But as she approached, he noticed a glint of steel in her eyes, the kind that experience told him promised trouble. He rearranged his flirtatious smile into something more polite and less hungry. She stopped in front of him and glared from across the table.

“You need to leave.”

Jaskier opened and closed his mouth several times. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me,” she said. She crossed her arms over her chest, and she did not so much as blink as she stared him down. “I don’t know what you are, and I don’t want to know. But we only serve humans here.”

“Oh,” Jaskier said. He considered his options, and got to his feet. Her assumption was as baffling as it was incorrect, but he didn’t see the point in arguing that. “Well, fuck you very much, then. Before I go back to the palace, I don’t suppose you’d tell me what I am?”

The door opened. Behind the bar, there was the sound of a glass breaking, followed by a door slamming shut. The woman facing Jaskier glanced to the bar, then looked back at him and swallowed heavily.

“You smell wrong.”

“Smells just fine to me,” Geralt said, stepping up behind him. Jaskier could have cried with relief. Geralt positioned himself beside Jaskier and examined the woman before them. He crossed one arm across his chest and lifted the other to his chin as if deep in thought. Past experience told Jaskier that was only half the motivation for his posture: in such a position, his hands were up and ready to fight at a moment’s notice. He smiled unpleasantly.

“Let me guess. Your friend who just ran out the back said he smelled dangerous. Unnatural. Like some kind of predator built out of all the vilest creatures in the world. Something that only exists to kill.”

The woman’s eyes widened in fear. Her eyes slid over to the door, then to the fireplace. Quick as a flash, she grabbed a hot poker from the fire and swung at Geralt with all her might. Jaskier screamed. Geralt leaned out of the way with practised ease and caught her hand around the wrist.

“People talk about how witchers kill monsters. They forget we also lift curses. Lycanthropy’s not an easy curse to lift, but it can be done. If I can help your friend, I will.”

“Let go of me,” the woman said, her voice trembling. Geralt obliged. She dropped the poker and took a few steps back, looking at both of them in terror.

“You’re witchers?”

“I’m a witcher. Jaskier’s a bard, and my husband. The smell your friend noticed was me.”

Jaskier made a wordless, offended noise at that. He may be in love with Geralt, but some insults would not stand.

“I do not smell like you!”

“Not to a human, no,” Geralt said. He winced a little at the outburst, and after a pause, he added, “We can talk about this later.”

“Later? What could possibly be more important than the fact that I apparently smell like Roach and six months of sweat?”

“Hm, I don’t know,” Geralt said, shifting his weight onto one foot and fixing Jaskier with a judgemental look. “Maybe the werewolf? Lycanthropy isn’t pleasant for anyone involved, least of all the werewolf.”

“Oh,” Jaskier said, feeling somewhat sheepish. “Right.”

Geralt turned to the woman, who now looked closer to confused than frightened. “I want to help your friend, but it’s not an easy curse to lift. You got a name?”

“Maja.”

“Well, Maja, what can you tell me about your friend?”

Maja hesitated, then gestured for them to take a seat. She brought three beers over and took a seat opposite Geralt. 

“It’s not Ava’s fault,” was the first thing she said. 

“I know. It never is. Have you known Ava long?”

“A few years now. She used to come here to drink a lot, but since she lost her job at the palace, we’ve taken her in. Dad and I, I mean. We didn’t realize what was happening at first. We thought the noises were nightmares, after the attack.”

“She was the girl attacked at the palace,” Geralt said, and Maja nodded. A frown appeared on his face. "You said she lost her job."

“Her manager said no one wanted an ugly maid,” she said with a sniff. “As if a scar or two could make her ugly! As if that matters! Anyone with eyes should be able to see how beautiful she is.”

There was a note of desperation in her voice that echoed in Jaskier’s bones. His opinion of her changed in an instant. At the same time, he felt a pang of pity for her. He knew that tone all too well. It was a difficult thing, loving someone convinced to their very core that a few scars made them a monster. Geralt leaned in a little.

“I can’t help with the scars, but it sounds like there might be a way you can save her.”

“Me?” Maja blinked, staring at him. 

“There’s only one cure for lycanthropy. You’ve probably heard it before. Most people have, but they assume it’s a story.”

“Tell me.”

Geralt stared at her for a long time, expression unreadable. He took a long draught of his beer and said, 

“I know it’s hard, but you’ve got to tell her how you feel.”

Maja’s face fell. “What gave it away?”

Geralt’s eyes flicked to Jaskier, then back to Maja. 

“I’ve seen that expression enough times before to recognize it.”

Jaskier felt as if the bottom had dropped out of his stomach. He stared at Geralt in poorly disguised horror. Was he that obvious? A hysterical laugh bubbled up inside his chest, which he drowned in ale. To think he’d worn his emotions clear on his face before he had even figured them out himself. But at the words, Maja’s eyes dipped to her beer, then up to Geralt with a pleading expression.

“She’ll leave.”

“Listen, I know it’s hard, but you need to be brave,” Geralt said. His tone startled Jaskier. It was not unusual for Geralt to be gentle and patient with distraught people when he could, but he had never seen this level of empathy. There was an undercurrent of sorrow that was normally missing.

“I was in a similar position not long ago. No curse, but I fell for someone I shouldn’t have, a friend of mine. I decided to say something a couple of years back. Wasn’t exactly romantic, but I did my best, spent every coin I had trying to make it what they deserved.”

“And?” Maja asked breathlessly. Geralt gave a rueful, crooked little smile.

“Well, I can’t say they let me down gently. But we’re still friends. Once I pulled my head out my ass and stopped sulking, things went back to normal. That’s the worst scenario you’ve got to fear. It might hurt for a bit, but it’ll hurt more if you don’t try.”

Jaskier winced. The back of his mind provided a pitch-perfect replay of Geralt explaining he and Yennefer were friends now. So much for their mutual break up. Had they been discussing anything else, he would have taken a moment to gloat over being correct, but as it was, the topic of Geralt’s broken heart broke his heart into just as many pieces. Even if he had not just realized his own affection for Geralt, his heart would have broken at the pain Geralt’s story implied. If he ever saw Yennefer again, he would make her regret breaking Geralt's heart. 

If nothing else, Maja took heart from his words. With a little more encouragement, Geralt sent her off after her werewolf friend with strict instructions as to how to proceed. He would return in a few nights to see how things had gone.

As soon as they were safely out of earshot, Jaskier asked, “Is it safe, leaving a werewolf to wander the city?”

“Werewolves don’t start off dangerous,” Geralt said. “It’s just a physical transformation at first. The person stays in control.”

“At first?”

Geralt sighed, shaking his head. “Doesn’t stay that way. There are exceptions to the rule, but most humans turned into a werewolf start to lose themselves. Starts off with killing people when they’re transformed, but eventually, it takes hold, even when they’re human.”

“And then they can’t be cured,” Jaskier concluded. Geralt shook his head, his expression bitter.

“No. But they keep hurting people.”

“Oh,” Jaskier said, stopping in the middle of the street. Sympathy twisted in his heart, and he wondered how many tragedies like that Geralt had seen.“That... that’s horrible, actually.”

“Most curses are,” Geralt said. He stopped, waiting for Jaskier to keep moving. When Jaskier did not, he took a step closer to him and put an arm around Jaskier’s shoulder, steering him back towards the palace. The contact startled Jaskier back to the present. After a moment of internal debate, he let himself press a little closer and slip an arm around Geralt’s waist. He tried not to think about what Geralt had said in the tavern. At least for the time being, he had an excuse to pretend Geralt loved him the way he wanted, and he intended to take advantage of it. 

It was not until they were back in their quarters that he remembered the other thing Geralt had said in the tavern.

“I nearly forgot. You owe me an apology for what you said back there.”

Geralt stared at him with wide eyes, his entire body going stiff and freezing in place. He said nothing. Feeling generous, Jaskier gave Geralt two whole seconds to respond before letting out a huff. 

“You’re not going to avoid this conversation, you know. You can’t just tell me I smell and move on as if nothing happened.”

Geralt’s shoulders relaxed. He took a moment to put aside his cloak, the movement hiding his face.

“I told you, no human could tell.”

“But you can tell.”

“Anything with a half decent nose could tell. Still surprises me sometimes how blind humans are.”

The reasoning was sound. It was not uncommon for Geralt to forget the limitation of Jaskier’s humanity, whether it was his endurance or his hearing or his sense of smell. Jaskier would pay dearly to know exactly how sensitive Geralt’s senses were, but he had never managed to get a straight answer out of him. More sensitive than a human, certainly. Beyond that, he could only guess.

“So to every witcher, werewolf, vampire, and monster out there, I smell like you,” Jaskier said flatly. Geralt shifted his weight and looked out the window. Jaskier could only see a fraction of his face, but from the frown tugging on his lips, he did not seem pleased.

“I can’t help it. Smells stick to people, and most monsters have the same reaction to witchers that you’d have to a bruxa screaming at you. You can’t not notice it.” 

The very thought of a bruxa screaming made Jaskier shudder in disgust. He’d heard a bruxa’s shriek only once before, but the sound still haunted his nightmares. If he heard even a whisper of that sound, he would bolt for either Geralt or the nearest exit without thought. Which, he realized, was exactly what the werewolf had done. She had fled from Jaskier, all because he had smelled like a witcher. Something lurched in his gut as he remembered how Geralt had described the scent.

“Like every predator in one, meant only to kill.”

Avoiding his eyes, Geralt shrugged. “That’s what witchers are.”

A quick glance around revealed there was nothing safe to throw in Jaskier’s immediate vicinity, so he settled for making a very rude gesture and sticking his tongue out.

“Bollocks.”

“We -- “

“Yes, yes, you’re subjected to unimaginable horrors in order to change you into someone who can hold his own against a monster,” Jaskier said, flapping his hands dismissively. “And if you ever worried about the unimaginable horrors part, I would be very sympathetic. But you don’t! You think that you’re inhuman just because you could lift me up with one hand. Because you have golden eyes. Because you can apparently tell where I’ve been and who I’ve seen just by smelling me. So what? I’ve spent enough time by your side to know you better than you know yourself, and you know what I think?”

“Something tells me I’m going to find out, even if I don’t,” Geralt grumbled, turning his face away. Seething, Jaskier stomped across the room and positioned himself in front of Geralt’s face. From his new position, he could see the ugly frown twisting Geralt’s face as he glared at the wall, avoiding eye contact at all costs.

“You’re as human as any of us. You’re defined by what’s in here,” he said, and slapped Geralt’s chest a little harder than necessary, “and not by whatever magic monster juice they forced into you.”

“I --”

“I won’t let you think otherwise, Geralt,” Jaskier said firmly. Geralt snorted and crossed his arms over his chest.

“You were horrified at the idea of being mistaken for me.”

Jaskier sighed. There were only a few things in the world he genuinely, wholeheartedly hated, and Geralt’s self-loathing was one of them. The world was a twisted and cruel place to allow someone so good to think so little of themselves. 

“Geralt, I say what I am about to say with nothing but fondness in my heart: you smell awful. Not so much now, but when we’re on the road, it is dreadful. You spend more time grooming Roach than you do yourself. I’ve seen how long you go without baths when we’re short on coin, and let me tell you, splashing your face with river water does nothing for your armpits. Despite my weak human nose, I can smell you from across the campsite. You are my dearest friend in the whole wide world and you smell dreadful.

“Now, for comparison, what do I smell like after a week on the road?”

To Jaskier’s astonishment, Geralt crinkled his nose in distaste. “Those stupid oils you use. At least the new ones aren’t as bad, but they still make you smell different.”

“Which is the point! I smell like flowers and exotic spices. You smell like Roach's rear end.”

If nothing else, the frown on Geralt’s face softened as his brow crinkled together. 

“No one smells like flowers. You smell like a human. You still sweat. You still pick up the smells of the things you handle and people you see. And if humans didn’t have such shit noses, you’d be able to smell it.”

Jaskier opened his mouth to ask if that meant he should wear more perfume before he abruptly shut it. They were, he realized, having two different conversations. Jaskier thought he was talking about smell and hygiene; Geralt thought it meant something was fundamentally wrong with him. Jaskier stepped in a little closer, elbowing Geralt in the ribs.

“Well, humans do have shit noses. And you smell...” Jaskier trailed off. For the first time, he actually paid attention to how Geralt smelled. Without the filth of the Path clinging to him, Jaskier was shocked to find himself enjoying the smell. The sharp tang of sweat was mild, blending with the faint scent of his soap in a way that made Jaskier want to inhale deeply. After a long pause, he realized he was staring. His cheeks turned pink.

“Well, normally you stink of horse and sweat, and that’s what I didn’t want. But if it’s something else, I don’t mind. As long as I don’t smell bad.” 

For the first time since they returned to the market, Geralt almost smiled. If he had not been in a foul mood to begin with, Jaskier was sure he would have grinned at that.

“No, Jaskier. No human would think you smelled of anything but your new cologne. Anyone else is just going to know you’ve spent a lot of time with a witcher.”

Jaskier flopped down on the bed, spreading his limbs out and staring at the ceiling. When Geralt put it like that, it didn’t sound too bad. 

“Could they tell which witcher?”

“My brothers could, but they’d know you regardless. They give me shit every winter for coming into the keep stinking of human.”

Now there was an idea Jaskier liked. Parting with Geralt was fine, of course, but he did like the idea that something of him lingered with Geralt. He wouldn’t want to be forgotten too quickly, after all. But after a few moments, his smile faded a little. He’d never met the other witchers, but he had seen for himself how reviled they were. Every time a stranger spat at Geralt or called him a freak, Jaskier was blinded by the rage he felt, but he had never thought about the full implications. Other witchers would have it no easier than Geralt. Without the silver hair, they may be able to hide what they were, but sooner or later, people would find out. The other witchers would be rejected in every town, called a freak and a monster and all sorts of horrid things. But from what Geralt had said, there was no one like Jaskier in their lives. They could go months at a time without a friendly face. 

“I want to meet them,” Jaskier said. The words left his mouth before the thought was even fully formed, but he stood by it. 

“Hm. I can’t make any promises, but I can keep an eye out for them on the road.”

Jaskier rolled onto his belly and stared at Geralt. “What are they like?”

Geralt hesitated. He often avoided the topic of other witchers, and Jaskier expected he would do the same this time. But then, bit by bit, he began to open up. At first the words were halting and awkward. Sentences were brutally short or went nowhere at all, ending in Geralt gesturing vaguely. But over time, Geralt relaxed, and Jaskier began to build up a mental picture of Geralt’s small family. He wanted very badly to meet them. Part of his desire was pure curiosity, wondering who else Geralt had in his life that loved him. But he was surprised to find a part of his desire that was more altruistic. The witchers of Kaer Morhen deserved to know there was at least one human who valued them without fearing them, even if he was just one. 

When he repeated his desire to Geralt, Geralt hummed. “Like I said, I’ll keep an eye out. And if you ever find yourself without diversion for the winter, you’d be welcome to join us.”

Jaskier pushed himself up on his elbows, staring at Geralt with an open mouth. He knew more about Geralt’s home than any living human, but what he knew amounted to very little. He knew it was far to the north of Kaedwen, and that the keep lay in ruin, and that it was cold. He could not point to it on a map, nor guess where the road to it lay. No one alive but the witchers themselves had ever seen it. Even the name was forgotten by all but a few.

“You’re inviting me to Kaer Morhen?” he asked breathlessly. Geralt grimaced and let his head fall back against the wall.

“If you didn’t have anything better. You wouldn’t like it there.”

“Why not?”

“You belong in places like this,” Geralt said, gesturing at the luxury around them. The words echoed in Jaskier’s mind. He’d heard the same sentiment a thousand times, but never from Geralt. He narrowed his eyes and pointed at Geralt with one finger.

“You’re lucky I know that’s coming from your self-loathing, and not based on anything to do with me. I deserve whatever I want, Geralt, and as much as I love comfort, I want to live.”

Geralt sighed, shaking his head. “You can live without this. It’s cold. There’s no audience, nor is there anyone to flirt with. And you couldn’t tell anyone what you’d seen.”

“You’d be there,” Jaskier pointed out. Whether he liked to or not, Geralt always listened to his songs, and Jaskier intended to flirt with him a great deal. “And your brothers! I’d finally have an audience for that song about the time you tripped because - “

“You breathe a word of that to them, and I’ll toss you off the edge of the mountain.”

The threat was accompanied by the most intimidating glare Geralt could muster. It was the kind of look that made hardened veterans fear for their lives, but Jaskier only laughed. 

“You mean you’d sulk for a week until I apologized and bullied you into accepting it.”

Geralt grunted, but he did not try to deny it. Jaskier flopped back onto the bed with a grin. He could almost picture it. Even with Geralt’s dire warnings about the lack of luxury, it sounded like a wonderful way to spend the winter. Until now, winter had always meant missing Geralt the way he might miss a lost limb. But if Geralt kept to his promise, things were beginning to look brighter.


End file.
